


Messages

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Surprising reversals, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, Subjects - Technology, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2002-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 146,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Work in progress</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Attack

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)_

 

I

A wet, earthy scent of grass and fallen leaves filled the small valley, even though it was summer, and the hot sun shone without mercy on the forests and plains of Ithilien. A light breeze stirred the roof of branches far above, the warm air was almost visible between the trunks of old and sturdy trees. The waters of Anduin glinted in the west, sparkling like a thousand diamonds under the sun.

Eerie silence hung over the valley like a thick blanket, there was not a single bird singing in the thick undergrowth, no traveller whistling a happy tune, no secret lovers enjoying the peace of the afternoon. For the peace of the valley was a lie, well hidden from the first glance, but obvious for everyone who dared to look closer.

The night brought relief of the heat of the day, the cool wind stirring the moist leaves on the ground, creating strange noises in the darkness. The pale moon and a sky full of stars bathed the forest in a faint light, too dim to make out details of the surroundings; there were only shadows.

An anguished cry disturbed the silence, echoing between the trees, piercing the cooling air like a knife. The cry was uttered by a horse, a cry of death and pain, followed by another, less pain filled cry of a human.

A brown horse stumbled into a small clearing, several arrows protruding from its broad chest and neck. The animal staggered a few last uncertain steps, then it crashed to the ground, throwing its rider against the trunk of a tree.

A wild cry came from between the trees, too loud to be uttered by human voices. The undergrowth moved, but it was not stirred by the wind. Nine large creatures, frightening black shadows, came running into the clearing, howling as they moved, waving swords and spears in front of them, one of them readying a short bow.

The fallen rider was clad in dark green and brown, a hood covered his head and prevented his pale face from being easily spotted in the darkness. The fall from his horse had broken his left wrist, but he did not notice the pain, gripping the hilt of his sword with his right hand as he scrambled to his feet to face his attackers. “Come and get me, if you dare!” he muttered under his breath. “If I am to go, I will not go alone!”

He risked a look at his horse, realizing there was nothing he could do for the animal. Slowly he moved backwards, putting the dying animal’s body between himself and the attacking creatures. He was used to fighting Orcs, he had been a Ranger for all his adult life, long ago he had stopped to count how many he had slain. Some of his fellow Rangers had to be near, all he had to do was to hold on until they came for him, for he was sure the cry of his horse had not gone unnoticed.

The Orcs approached him, some of them moving around him to attack from behind. He sheathed his sword for a second, silently cursing his inability to use his left hand, drew his dagger from his belt and threw it at one of his attackers before readying his sword again. The dagger embedded itself in the throat of one of the Orcs, and the creature fell to the ground with an anguished cry.

As if they had waited for a sign, the remaining Orcs attacked from all sides, and the Ranger defended himself one handed, spinning and turning around, blocking blow after blow, striking and drawing back. Black blood covered his hand, a deep cut at his temple started to bleed badly, the red blood obscuring his vision. He could not remember slaying the Orc that had advanced that far, but he must have, otherwise he would be dead by now. He felt an arrow pierce his left calf, but he remained standing, clinging to his sword with his right hand, striking at anything that moved around him, stumbling but never falling over the bodies of slain attackers in his dance with death.

He could rather sense than see the Orcs at his left and right, shadows moving in the darkness, turning around on his uninjured leg. He had lost his sense of time, he was moving too fast to get a clear view on the number of his attackers in the dim starlight. He had started speaking to himself, forcing himself to go on, to remain standing until help arrived.

His sword entered soft flesh, a howl to his right, then silence. He raised his left arm to wipe the blood off his eyes with his sleeve. An arrow hit his sword arm, ripping the muscles of his upper arm to pieces. He lost the grip on the sword hilt, for his muscles did not obey his commands any more. The weapon fell to the ground, the blade missing his foot by a few inches.

There were eight dead or dying Orcs scattered around him. He could make out the shadow of the last attacking Orcs to his right. His horse was dying, he had lost all weapons, he could not run. He was unable to defend his life any further, but as promised, death had taken a great toll among his enemies. The ground of the small clearing was bathed in their blood. His vision cleared, enhanced by the pain that shot through his weary body, and he spotted the last of the Orcs, grinning madly, showing a row of big, yellow teeth, as he slowly, carefully put another arrow into his short bow.

The Ranger struggled to meet death while still standing, but his legs refused to support his weight any more, and he crashed to the ground, his head hitting the metal helmet of one of the dead Orcs. Blackness came, fast and welcome, ridding him of all pain and sorrows.

He could sense movement, feel the cold air, hear the beating of his own heart, and to his surprise, he realized that he was not dead. He felt pain in his left calf, left wrist and right upper arm, and his head hurt badly. He opened his eyes and saw his horse, still alive but dying at his side. He could smell blood and earth and grass and death, and the stench was disgusting. He tried to turn his head, but dizziness overcame him, and he had to close his eyes again to stay conscious.

“Don’t move!” an unfamiliar, slightly hoarse voice told him. “You have to save your strength. You have lost a lot of blood.”

He tried to avoid the voice, to move away, but his movements were slow, and his whole body trembled under the strain of keeping the darkness at bay. A gentle hand touched his left arm, carefully examining his broken wrist. He flinched when the pain hit, but the grip around his arm tightened.

“I know it hurts,” the voice said. “Try to ignore it. Try to stay conscious. Don’t open your eyes if it brings dizziness, just stay with me. Talk to me. I have to know you are still with me. Are you in the condition to talk?”

“I can talk,” he said, and the weakness of his voice surprised him. “Who are you.”

His question was left unanswered. The hands did not bother to set his wrist, and he was grateful for that, for he knew the pain would send him into unconsciousness again. His hand was being wrapped into a cold, wet piece of cloth. He concentrated on the rest of his body and felt cold, wet bandages at the locations where arrows had hit him.

“What about the last Orc?” he asked.

“I arrived just in time,” the voice answered. “He is with his comrades now. As your horse will be shortly, I am sorry to tell.”

The hand touched his forehead, smoothed away his hair and probed at the deep cut. He forced his eyes to flutter open, ignoring the dizziness and sickness. His vision blurred, but his wish to look at the stranger who was tending to his injuries was stronger than his fatigue and discomfort.

He recognized a rough, dirty hand working on his forehead, a second hand was on his shoulder, stilling his wounded and tired body. The arm attached to the hand was clad in black. Slowly, the Ranger raised his gaze to look into the stranger’s face. There was nothing to see, for the stranger’s head was concealed by a dark hood, his features hidden in darkness and shadows.

The effort of keeping his eyes open drained a lot of strength from his weary body. His shoulders started to tremble as he fought the urge to cough. He closed his eyes again.

Soothing hands touched his arms and shoulders. “Keep your eyes closed,” the voice whispered. “I am a friend, I mean no harm.”

He realized he was to weak to answer, to weak to think. Fatigue was slowing his mind.

“Talk to me,” the voice urged, and he could feel warm breath tickling his hair and face. “Stay awake. You can sleep when this is over. You have to tell me how to find your comrades, for I am a stranger in this country, and travelling at night is dangerous.”

The Ranger smiled a little, despite the pain. Dangerous, indeed. “They are close,” he whispered.

“I hope so.”

The hands finished cleaning the cut on his forehead, and he felt an almost tender caress on his cheek, then he heard quiet footsteps moving around his position. He was tired, and the pain was bad. “I cannot stay awake much longer,” he breathed.

“Try!” the voice said. “We have to reach your comrades. And you are too heavy, you have to help getting yourself on the back of my horse.”

He heard and smelled an animal approaching. His left arm was raised and slung over what felt like narrow shoulders. A strong arm reached around his back and raised his upper body off the ground. “Help me!” the voice said, and a hand took hold of his left elbow, careful not to touch his broken wrist. “Try to move your right leg.”

“Trying!” he hissed, already out of breath. His eyes fluttered open again, and he saw a brown horse lying in the grass in front of him. The horse was bare backed, there was just an old bridle around his head, two pieces of rope served as reins.

The stranger dragged him to the horse, there was not much he could do to help, and his right leg was hoisted over the back of the animal. The pain was almost unbearable, and with every movement a groan escaped his lips.

The voice was talking to him all the time, and even though he did not get the words, the sound was something he could cling to, something to concentrate on, something he could use to keep the blackness at bay.

“Don’t let go now!” the voice said. “You have lost a lot of blood, we have to reach help fast.”

He did not want to surrender to the blackness and pain, but his strength was almost spent. “Trying!” he breathed.

He felt the stranger mount behind him, slender arms encircled his waist. A quiet command to the horse, and the animal raised itself, shaking both riders violently. He thought he would fall to the ground, but the arms held him tightly. He could feel the warmth of a body at his back and the warmth of the animal between his legs. Another quiet command, and the horse started to move, softly swaying the riders. The stranger kept his body from sliding off the bare horseback.

“Where are your comrades?” the stranger whispered into his ear. “Which direction?”

The Ranger was too weak, too close to fainting, to think of an answer. He saw blackness approaching, and he knew there was nothing he could do to keep it away much longer. He concentrated on an answer, his weary mind spinning in search for the words.

“Don’t move! Drop your weapons!” Anborn? “Get off the horse. Now!” Anborn! He would recognize the deep, slightly hoarse voice anywhere. He was safe, his fellow Rangers had found him.

Darkness came, and he embraced it.

The loud wail of a horse pierced the cold midnight’s air, and the three Rangers stopped in their tracks, listening. There was another cry, fainter, clearly uttered by a human voice. The men unsheathed their swords, there were no words necessary to coordinate their movements. The first vanished in the undergrowth to the north, the second made his way to the south, while the third continued westbound, moving almost without a sound. They knew the area well, and they were accustomed to disappear in the blink of an eye and reappear whenever it served their purpose. Their strides, careful and measured, were long and fast, covering great distances with a single movement.

There was no second cry, only the sound of battle far away, but one loud cry was enough to lead these men into the right direction. They were moving fast, knowing that a single cry in the silent forest could be heard across a great distance. The clanging of sword against sword ceased long before they were able to reach the place where the first cry had come from.

They met again at a small clearing and were greeted by a sight of death. There was a brown horse, slain by many arrows, and eight Orcs were piled about each other, the earth dark with their blood. A ninth Orc lay alone, his big ugly head severed from his body, his cruel, dead eyes staring in disbelief, a short bow still in his cold hand.

“Anborn?” one of the Rangers asked his leader.

“Must be one of us. He cannot be far, the bodies are warm,” Anborn answered.

“I wonder why he left this place,” the third Ranger mused, his voice no louder than a whisper. “I don’t believe he came out of this fight unharmed.”

Anborn gestured to his left and his right, and the Rangers split up again, carefully moving about the clearing, searching for tracks on the ground. Anborn found fresh hoof prints and waved his comrades to follow him.

The Rangers did not have to pursue the tracks for long. Soon they heard the slow hoof beat of a single horse, and they hurried to surprise the animal from behind.

It was an ugly, big, brown steed, his long mane dishevelled, his tail adorned with leaves and dirt. It bore no saddle, and an old bridle with ropes as reins was knotted around his heavy head. On his back was a hooded figure, cradling the limp form of Beldil, one of their messengers, before him.

Anborn knew the messenger well, Beldil had been with the Ithilien company for years and had set out to Minas Tirith with an urgent message less than a week ago. They had fought side by side in many battles and had shared wine and bread and more than one tale during the cold winter nights.

Anborn sheathed his sword and readied his bow. “Don’t move! Drop your weapons!” he shouted. “Get off the horse. Now!”

The horse stopped in his slow walk. The rider did not move, neither to look around in surprise, nor to reach for a weapon.

Anborn and his men slowly walked around to face him.

The hooded figure was small, smaller than any of them, his slender arms were locked around Beldil’s lifeless form, keeping him from sliding off the horse. There was a short sword at his side, and he had a bow and a quiver with arrows on his back. His hands and clothes were stained with the black blood of Orcs, and there were patches of red blood as well.

“Drop your weapons and get off the horse!” Anborn commanded again, taking aim at the hooded figure. His companion mirrored his action.

“I would obey, my lord,” a slightly hoarse voice answered from under the hood, “but to drop my weapons I have to take my hands off this wounded man, and I do not want him to fall to the ground again. He lost consciousness a minute ago. ”

Anborn nodded to Galdor, and the Ranger dropped his bow and moved forward to help his wounded comrade.

“Hand him over,” Anborn said. “Slowly.”

The hooded figure did as he was told, reluctantly he loosened his grip about the wounded messenger, and Beldil slid down into the waiting arms of his fellow Ranger. The hooded rider dismounted his ugly steed and stretched out his bloody hands, palms turned upwards, to show he meant no harm. He was small and slender, the big horse loomed like a giant over its master, its long tail fluttering in the cool breeze.

“Take off your hood and show your face,” Anborn commanded, his arrow still ready on the bowstring.

“As you wish, my lord.” One of the dirty hands moved upwards and cast back the hood.

Anborn lowered his bow and grunted in surprise.

Big, dark eyes mirrored the pale light of the moon and gazed at him from under a mop of unruly black hair. The hooded rider was no more than a boy, his beardless, boyish face trying to appear calm, but the fear in his eyes belying the defiant set of his jaw. At the neck of his shirt, the white tree of Gondor became visible in the darkness. “My name is Anakil, son of Anabar of the Anduin,” he introduced himself. His voice was slightly hoarse, it had not yet broken to be that of a man.

The boy lowered his gaze to stare at his blood covered hands, and suddenly his defiant face crumbled. His shoulders started to shake, his hands shoot to hold his stomach, and he doubled over, retching and vomiting.

Anborn shouldered his bow, and a flicker of understanding crossed his eyes. He ordered Darung with a silent nod to help Galdor with Beldil and moved forwards to put a soothing hand on the retching boy’s back. “You killed that ninth Orc?” he asked quietly. “Your first bloody fight?”

The boy raised his head and nodded, then he bent forward again to empty the remaining content of his stomach onto the forest floor. As his moment of sickness was over, the boy tried to regain his composure, but his hand continued to tremble. He spit on the ground, then wiped his mouth and stared at his feet to hide an embarrassed flush, clearly visible despite the darkness of the night.

Anborn scrutinized the small, slender youth with a piercing gaze and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t be ashamed,” he said. “Things happen when the tension is over.”

The boy raised his head, his dark eyes glistening wet in the moonlight. He moved one hand over his face, leaving a trail of blood and dirt. “Things should not happen to me, my lord.”

“Don’t call me lord, Anakil, son of Anabar. But tell me, what are you doing on the eastern shore of Anduin, in the middle of the night.”

The boy squared his narrow shoulders, and his hands stopped trembling. A hand shot up to touch Gondor’s sign at his shirt. “I crossed the Anduin at Osgiliath, for I have a message for the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers.”


	2. The Rangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some  
fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the  
errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of  
Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out  
and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

 

II

 

The Ranger Anborn decided to go back to the clearing where the fight had  
taken place. His comrades carried the body of the still unconscious  
messenger, Anakil had understood his name was Beldil, between themselves.  
Anborn led the way with a small torch, his sword ready in his hand, and  
Anakil brought up the rear, leading his horse on the old bridle. He had  
realized he was not a prisoner, but he was not free to go either. The  
Rangers expected him to stay with them until they had come to a decision on  
what to do with him and his message, and the boy was rather grateful for  
their company and protection.

 

They built a bed for Beldil and covered him with a thin blanket. The man  
had not started to shiver yet, but Anakil feared there was only a slim  
chance for him to escape the fever. His wounds were too grave, and he had  
lost a lot of blood.

 

While the two Rangers disappeared in the darkness around the clearing to  
check for possible threads, Anborn ordered the boy to stay next to the  
wounded. “You obviously know something about caring for wounds,” he said.  
“Watch him closely. Should he wake or appear to worsen, call me.”

 

Anakil nodded and obediently sat down cross-legged on the cold ground. His  
hand let go of the bridle, he continued to hold the horse by the rope that  
served as reins.

 

“You won’t need the horse any more tonight,” Anborn said and took the rope  
from Anakil’s hand. “We will stay for the night and wait for daylight.”

 

Anakil looked at Beldil, then up at Anborn again. “He needs a healer, fast”  
he said slowly. “I did not stitch the wounds, and I do not have any herbs  
to treat his condition.”

 

“Do you know how to stitch?”

 

Anakil thought about this question. “I have assisted at least a dozen  
times,” he finally said. “But I have done it myself only with horses.”

 

Anborn snorted. “Beldil is not a horse.”

 

One of the Rangers stepped out of the darkness of the underbrush, his  
movements inaudible despite the silence of the night, and Anakil flinched  
in surprise. Anborn must have expected him, for he tossed the reins of the  
horse to his companion, and the man led the animal to the opposite side of  
the clearing. There he fastened the rope on a strong tree and motioned the  
animal to be quiet. The big, brown steed immediately settled down on the  
ground, his nose sniffing for something edible between the damp leaves and  
thin branches on the forest floor.

 

Anborn bent down, drew Anakil’s small sword out of its scabbard and laid  
the weapon across the boy’s bent knees. “Be on guard,” he told him. “There  
might be silent hunters around, and most of them are far more hostile and  
dangerous than a Ranger.”

 

Anakil nodded, took up the sword to lay it aside and readied his short bow.  
“I am a better bowman than swordsman,” he explained.

 

Anborn grunted grimly in response and walked away to confer in hushed tones  
with his comrades. There were not many words necessary to coordinate their  
actions. Soon the three men moved about the clearing, stripping all dead  
creatures of armour and gear and building a pile of dead Orcs over the  
cadaver of the horse. They could not burn the dead Orcs, for a fire would  
give away their position to other creatures of the night.

 

The bodies of the slain creatures and the dead horse were too fresh to  
start smelling, but in Anakil’s imagination the stench of death and decay  
intensified with every passing minute. As the men picked up the body and  
severed head of the Orc he had slain, he had to concentrate hard on  
ignoring the sickness that once again welled up in his stomach.

 

His hands searched his pockets for a piece of cloth to cover his mouth  
with, but he knew the search was in vain. His fingers touched the paper of  
the sealed message he was carrying, otherwise his pockets were empty.

 

Anborn had been friendly enough, but Anakil knew none of the Rangers  
trusted him. He sensed he was being watched, even though he never caught  
one of the men observing him openly. Should he try to leave or use his  
weapons for another purpose than defending himself, he was sure he would be  
pierced by arrows or daggers before he could send a single arrow on its  
way.

 

His gaze shifted to the bow in his hands and the sword at his side. His  
hand were soiled with dark blood, and he could feel dried blood on his face  
as well. He longed for water to clean himself of the grime, but what little  
water he had he wanted to preserve for Beldil. He did not know where the  
Rangers’ camp was located, and therefore he did not know how far they had  
to carry the wounded.

 

Anborn and his comrades finished the gruesome task of searching and moving  
dead bodies and settled down next to Anakil. There were still a few hours  
left until the light of dawn. Anborn fished three wooden toothpicks out of  
his pocket, marked one of them with his thumbnail and enclosed all three in  
his clenched fist. The unmarked heads were sticking out between his thumb  
and forefinger. Each of his comrades picked one toothpick, examined it and  
grinned. Anborn scrutinized the toothpick that was left in his hand,  
shrugged and put all three toothpicks back into his pocket.

 

The two Rangers settled down on the fallen leaves, drew their hoods over  
their heads, wrapped themselves in their cloaks for warmth and closed their  
eyes to get some sleep.

 

Anborn took a seat on a patch of leaves and leaned back against a tree  
trunk, his sword ready across his outstretched legs. “How is he?” he  
whispered, his concerned gaze fixed on Beldil.

 

“Holding on, I think,” Anakil whispered back. “I don’t know if he is  
unconscious or asleep. He has not moved for a long time, never opened his  
eyes. No fever yet.”

 

Anborn grunted. “Good. Let him rest.”

 

“What do we do now?” Anakil knew he should not ask, but his curiosity was  
too strong to remain silent until the Ranger decided to tell him.

 

“Rest,” Anborn answered. “Try to get some sleep. I have watch until dawn.”

 

“I am not tired,” Anakil said, his fingers in his pocket fingering the  
message.

 

“Then be quiet and let those sleep who can.”

 

Anakil looked at the still forms of the two Rangers and realized they were  
already deep asleep. One of them was snoring softly, but they lay too close  
together to distinguish where the sound was coming from. He envied them  
their calmness of mind to fall asleep after the disgusting task of sorting  
through the bodies of dead Orcs. He did not want to admit it, but despite  
his tension he was tired, he just did not want to close his eyes, for he  
feared what he might see in his dreams.

 

It was good to feel the soft paper of the message between his fingers. This  
message was the reason he was here, and it gave him the right to be here,  
to spend the night among experienced Rangers and soldiers in the  
wilderness.

 

Beldil moaned softly, and Anakil put a soothing hand on his arm. The touch  
calmed the wounded man, and the boy decided to let his hand linger for a  
moment. He could feel Anborn’s watchful gaze following every single  
movement, and he knew the Ranger had only allowed him to keep his weapons  
out of respect, for he had saved the messenger’s life, but he was not  
considered a threat. He was just a boy with a bow and a sword; he was no  
match for an experienced Ranger.

 

He raised his head and met Anborn’s eyes. The Ranger was chewing on one of  
his toothpicks now. He had pulled his hood over his head, his dark eyes  
glimmering like polished stones in the dim starlight. Anakil could not  
endure the motionless stare of those eyes and quickly lowered his head to  
fuss over Beldil’s motionless form.

 

Anborn’s deep chuckle surprised him. “Do yourself a favour and sleep!” the  
Ranger whispered.

 

Anakil nodded wordlessly, embarrassed that the Ranger had noticed his  
uneasiness and exhaustion. He let go of Beldil’s arm, rested his back  
against a tree, drew his hood over his head to hide his flushed face and  
closed his eyes.

 

 

Just before sunrise, there was an eerie silence in the woods and plains of  
Ithilien. Dark patches of clouds came from the east, and all natural sounds  
seemed to vanish; animals hid in their holes in the ground, and the stars  
disappeared from the sky. Evil voices seemed to whisper in the twilight,  
their speechless murmur trying to pierce the frightened men’s mind. Anborn  
was used to being awake during this uneasy hour, and he greeted the first  
glimpse of the rising sun with a nod of his head.

 

The ugly brown horse at the other side of the clearing scrambled to his  
feet and stretched its strong limbs and heavy body. Beldil started to move  
as well, and Anborn moved to sit beside him. “Beldil, it’s Anborn” he said  
softly. “Can you hear me?”

 

Beldil’s eyes fluttered open, and he tried to sit up. A groan escaped his  
lips, and he squeezed his eyes shut again as the pain hit.

 

Anborn put a soothing hand on his shoulder. “I can imagine you have quite a  
headache. You have a bump as big as my fist on the back of your skull.”

 

“You have very big hands,” Beldil croaked and opened his eyes again. They  
were bright with unshed tears of pain and beginning fever.

 

Anborn smiled down at him and clasped his arm in the greeting. “Good to  
hear you talking again,” he said. He supported Beldil’s head with his hand  
and put a water skin to the messenger’s cracked lips.

 

Beldil swallowed a few sips and sighed.

 

“Better?” Anborn asked.

 

Beldil nodded and winced in pain.

 

“Do you remember what happened?”

 

“Orcs,” Beldil answered slowly. “Too many Orcs.”

 

“Nine, to be exact.” Galdor and Darung had been raised by the voices and  
stepped forward to greet their injured companion with a smile. “Obviously  
one too many.”

 

Beldil let his eyes move around his limited field of vision. “This is not  
the camp,” he stated.

 

“No, we spent the night in the woods. You are seriously hurt, we could not  
risk moving you in the darkness. But we will get you home in no time.” ing

 

Beldil was a tall, strong man in his mid-twenties, and Anborn was very  
grateful for the presence of Anakil’s horse. He motioned Darung to go and  
get the animal.

 

The boy was still sleeping, his short upper body propped up against a tree,  
his young face shadowed by his hood. The movement and voices had not  
disturbed his deep slumber.

 

“There was someone...a man, I think,” Beldil started, searching his hazy  
memory for details.

 

“A boy,” Anborn corrected. “He finished off the last Orc for you and cared  
for your wounds thoroughly enough. He is with us now. His name is Anakil.”

 

“Don’t know an Anakil.” Beldil wetted his cracked lips with his tongue.

 

“Neither do I.” Anborn shrugged and got to his feet, stretching his stiff  
muscles and throwing back his hood. “Claims to carry a message for the  
Captain. Has Gondor’s sign on his shirt. I will take him to the Captain.”

 

“I have messages for the Captain as well,” Beldil breathed.

 

Anborn stooped down next to the wounded man and put a dirty finger to his  
lips. “Think about saving your strength,” he said, his deep, hoarse voice  
soft. “Let us worry about the rest.” He moved his fingers over Beldil’s  
face, gently closing the eyes with the palm of his hand. “Rest.”

 

Beldil’s eyes stayed closed, his laboured breathing slowing a little.

 

Darung had freed the horse and made the animal lay down next to Beldil to  
get the wounded man on the animal’s back without putting too much strain on  
the open wounds on his leg and arm.

 

Anborn squatted down in front of the sleeping boy and put a hand on his  
shoulder. “Anakil!” he called. “Wake up.”

 

The boy winced and let out a small sigh. “Ready for duty. Be there in a  
minute”

 

“Anakil!”

 

Anakil’s eyelids shot open at the commanding voice, and he scrambled to his  
feet. For a moment his face searched the clearing for anything familiar,  
than his memory returned, and he recalled the events of the night. The  
sight of the dead Orcs made him wince again, and he averted his gaze,  
pretending to rub sleep out of his eyes.

 

“We will set out as soon as you are ready,” Anborn said.

 

He left the boy to care for himself and helped settling Beldil on the bare  
horseback. The messenger was too weak to hold himself steady on the broad  
horseback, so Darung seated himself behind him to keep him from falling.

 

“Anakil, you will lead the horse,” Anborn ordered. “Follow me closely.  
Galdor will cover our backs.”

 

“What about breakfast?” Anakil asked. He had not eaten for more than twelve  
hours, and his stomach demanded food.

 

“You have a message to deliver, we have an injured messenger to care for.”  
Anborn took a last look at the clearing, before striding into the  
underbrush, still dark and unwelcoming in the twilight of dawn. “No time  
for breakfast.”

 

Anakil grabbed the bridle of his horse and hurried to follow him. Galdor  
formed the rear, his hand at the hilt of his sword.

 

They traveled in silence. Anborn could hear the laboured breath of the boy  
close behind him, the young messenger was obviously not used to moving at  
great speed. The heavy hooves of the horse clattered evenly on the hard  
underground.

 

“How is Beldil?” he heard the hesitating voice of the boy.

 

“Hurt,” Darung said curtly, and the boy fell silent again.

 

They continued at a fast pace, leaving the thick underbrush behind. The  
sound of flowing water could be heard, and turning right they came to a  
small river, rushing over stones and small rapids in its narrow bed. In the  
west, beyond plains that stretched out somewhat below, the rising sun  
glinted on the waters of the Anduin.

 

Anborn stopped and turned around to face his companions. Darung had already  
dismounted, and together with Galdor he had lowered Beldil to the ground.  
Anakil had one hand tightly at the horse’s bridle, his other hand rested on  
the animal’s nose, using the animal’s breath for warmth in the morning  
chill.

 

“We have to leave the horse behind,” Anborn said. “The way we are about to  
go is too narrow and dangerous.”

 

The boy’s hand on the animal’s nose started to caress the soft, damp skin,  
and the animal snorted in delight. “Good boy,” the boy murmured and freed  
the ugly steed of the bridle. “You know the way home, don’t you? There, in  
the west, there is the river. Just keep on going downstream, and you will  
find your way home.” The horse rubbed his big head on the boy’s shoulder,  
and the boy laughed quietly. “Don’t worry about me, just go!” He smacked  
the animal behind its big ears, motioned with his outstretched arm towards  
the river, and the horse obediently trotted away. The boy slung the bridle  
over his shoulder and hid his hands under his cloak.

 

Anborn searched his pockets for a moment and pulled out a green, woolen  
scarf. “I have to blindfold you, Anakil, for no stranger is allowed to see  
the path to our camp. No enemy has found our hiding place so far, and we  
want to keep it that way for as long as we possibly can.”

 

“I am not an enemy,” Anakil protested.

 

“The sign of Gondor at the neck of a shirt, a living messenger and a slain  
Orc are no proof of good intentions,” Anborn replied. “You will deliver  
your message, and the Captain will decide whether you are considered friend  
or foe. You can come willingly with your hands unbound and your weapons at  
your side, or we can disarm you and carry you in with your hands tied  
behind your back, it is your choice.” The tall Ranger loomed large above  
the small boy, his deep, hoarse voice commanding and firm. He had his right  
hand at the hilt of his sword, indicating he was not jesting.

 

“I am a messenger of Gondor, there is no need to bind me.” Anakil stepped  
forward and did not move as Anborn fastened the scarf securely over his  
eyes. “I will not cause any trouble.”

 

The Ranger put his hand on the boy’s shoulder to guide him, and they  
started moving again, slower, for Anakil could not see the path ahead, and  
Galdor and Darung had to carry Beldil between themselves.

 

The path was leading them downwards and through small passageways framed by  
high stonewalls. Anborn steered Anakil with his hand and his voice,  
preventing the boy from stumbling and falling on the uneven path. The noise  
of water never ceased. After a while the path ascended again, and the noise  
of the water almost disappeared. Galdor and Darung were breathing heavily,  
and they rested a while to let them regain their strength.

 

There were no guards visible to prevent them from traveling the path, but  
Anborn knew they had been watched closely since they had parted from the  
horse. He did not doubt preparations had already been made to care for the  
wounded, and his stomach growled in anticipation of a healthy breakfast.

 

After their short break they climbed down many steps into a cave in the  
rock. The sound of water reappeared, and there was the stream again,  
splashing down in front of them in a thin veil of droplets, sparkling like  
silver in the light of the morning sun. A dark, unwelcoming gate opened in  
the rocky wall behind them, and the hard ground they stood upon was wet  
from the spraying water.

 

Two men appeared out of the dark rocky gate, lifted Beldil from the tired  
Ranger’s arms and carried him away. Words were not necessary to coordinate  
the care for the wounded, and Darung and Galdor followed their comrades  
into the darkness of the opening.

 

Anborn turned Anakil around so that he faced the sparkling fall and pulled  
the scarf off his eyes. The opening in the rocks faced westwards, it took  
the boy only a few moment to adjust to the bright but not blinding morning  
light. Slowly he stretched out a hand to touch the veil of water in front  
of him, as if testing if it was real. The cold water touched his dirty  
hand, and the boy pulled back his arm, slightly startled.

 

A smile crept onto Anborn’s stern face, and he once again put a hand on the  
boy’s shoulder. “Welcome to Henneth Annûn, Window of the Sunset, refuge of  
the Ithilien Rangers.”

  



	3. Henneth Annun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some  
fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the  
errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of  
Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out  
and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

 

III

 

Anakil stared at the glistening waterfall, his eyes wide with wonder. “This  
is the most beautiful place I have ever seen!” he gasped.

 

“Wait until you see it at sunset,” Anborn chuckled from behind. “Ithilien  
has many falls, but there is none to match this one, lit by the very last  
rays of the evening sun. Remind me to accompany you out here when the time  
is right.”

 

“I will,” Anakil promised. “I will.” He took one last glimpse of the fall  
and the sunlight, then he turned around to face the Ranger.

 

Anborn had his arms clasped behind his back, his tall frame almost blending  
in with the dark rocks behind him. “We have a doorstep to shame even the  
castle of a king, but I fear the hall behind it is not kingly at all,” he  
said. “I have to take your weapons now, for I cannot watch you as I did in  
the forest.” He held out his hand.

 

“I am what I claim to be.” Anakil protested, but he unfastened his sword  
from his belt and took the bow from his back.

 

“You will be considered a guest as long as you behave as it is expected of  
one,” Anborn replied and accepted the weapons with a nod of his head. “You  
are a stranger to our company, so you cannot appreciate the trust I  
displayed by bringing you here. I could have easily taken your message and  
left you in the woods, I am sure you are aware of that. You might have been  
able to kill an Orc, but I strongly doubt your ability to resist a Ranger  
on guard, let alone overpower him.”

 

“I meant no offence.” Anakil raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “I  
will honour your laws. Lead on, for I have a message to deliver.”

 

Anborn grunted in response and stepped through the dark rocky gate.

 

It was the entrance to a large chamber in the rocks, the roof high enough  
for a man to stand up straight. The only light came from the small entrance  
and a few torches on the wall. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim  
light, Anakil saw a great amount of weapons piled in one corner, as well as  
large barrels and boxes of supplies. The cave was wide enough to easily  
hold several hundred men, but there were only about twenty moving about,  
none of them showing an interest in the new arrival.

 

There were many mattresses piled close to the walls, four of them apart  
from the others. These mattresses were occupied, and Anakil guessed they  
were the beds of the ill and wounded. He squinted his eyes in the gloomy  
light, but he could not see well enough to make out whether Beldil was  
among them. At the far end of the cave, curtains obscured the view, maybe  
to give the Captain, his Lieutenants and invited guests a little privacy.

 

“Feel free to move about and talk to the men, but stay away from the  
weapons and the supplies, and do not try to leave without permission. I  
will send a man with water and breakfast in a little while.”

 

“I have to see the Captain,” Anakil said.

 

“The Captain will see you in time.” Anborn bowed his head and departed  
without further instructions.

 

Anakil took his time wandering around in the large cave, avoiding the  
weapons and supplies carefully. There was not much to see, it was a plain  
camp, neither as spacious nor as comfortable as the lair of the Osgiliath  
company from where he had set out on his errand.

A Ranger approached him with a bowl of clean water and a dark piece of  
cloth and he gratefully washed the dirt and grime off his face and hands.  
His cloak was soiled with dark orcish blood as well, but there was nothing  
he could do about that for now, for he did not bring clothes to change on  
his journey. He dried his face and neck on the cloth and settled down with  
his back against the wall to get some rest.

 

The few Rangers who were moving about the camp were tall men, most of them  
with a full head of dark hair, clad in green and brown, some armed with a  
sword, some having shed their arms to move about unhindered. The poor  
description he had been given of the Captain fitted every single one of  
them well enough, he was unable to tell if the Captain was present in the  
cave.

 

Another Ranger brought him a mug of wine and bread, cheese and salted meat  
on a plate. Anakil remembered that he had not eaten for quite some time and  
was hungry indeed, and his stomach growled in anticipation.

 

“You are the messenger called Anakil?” the Ranger asked him as he thanked  
him for the meal.

 

“Yes, my name is Anakil,” he replied.

 

“Beldil, the wounded messenger that arrived in your company, would like to  
have a word with you, when you have finished your meal,” the Ranger told  
him. “He cannot come to you, the healer has forbidden him to rise and move  
about. His bed is over there with the other wounded.” The Ranger pointed to  
the far end of the cave where the four occupied mattresses were situated.

 

“I will seek him out,” Anakil promised and started to eat.

 

When the Ranger turned around to leave, he opened his water skin and poured  
some water into the mug of wine, for he did not have much experience with  
alcohol and feared that even a single mug would get him light headed.

 

The boy finished everything that had been brought to him and remained  
seated for a while to relish the feeling of being reasonably clean and  
satisfied. The dim light of the cave seduced his eyes to flutter shut, but  
he fought the fatigue that started to overwhelm him and pushed himself to  
his feet to keep his promise to the messenger.

 

There were four people on the sickbeds of Henneth Annûn, all of them young  
men, their faces white, at least one part of their bodies wrapped in  
bandages. It occurred to Anakil that so far he had not seen an old man  
among the Rangers of Ithilien.

 

He recognized Beldil from their time together in the woods, even though the  
man’s forehead was covered with a white piece of cloth, and there was the  
dark shadow of a beard on his pale cheeks. His eyes were closed, and Anakil  
hesitated, unwilling to wake the man should he be asleep. There was no  
healer around he could ask for advice or permission to speak.

 

“Beldil?” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

 

The messenger’s eyes popped open, causing Anakil to step back in surprise.  
“Obviously you are,” he said. “My name is Anakil. You sent for me.”

 

“You are a boy, indeed.” Beldil’s grey eyes scrutinized the boy for a  
moment, then he got his right arm out from below the blanket to slowly wave  
his fingers. His upper arm, where the arrow had hit him, was tightly  
wrapped in a clean white bandage. “Come closer, sit down if you like, we  
don’t want to disturb the others.” His voice was hoarse but stronger than  
Anakil had expected it to be.

 

The boy lowered himself next to Beldil’s bed, his back against the cold  
wall. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

 

Beldil snorted. “Well enough, considering I was in close contact with a  
band of Orcs.” He slowly offered his right hand. “Thank you for saving my  
life, young Anakil. I am in your debt.”

 

Anakil hesitated before taking Beldil’s raised hand, and he almost winced  
as the messenger, despite his injured arm, squeezed his hand firmly. He  
pressed back with all the strength he could muster, and Beldil smiled.

 

“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

 

“I am fifteen, but I will be sixteen in a few months,” Anakil replied.  
“Don’t tell me I don’t look it, those are the first words I hear when  
giving away my age.”

 

“You are rather...,” Beldil hesitated to find words that would not hurt,  
“..small,” he finished. “But there is a certain advantage in being small,”  
he added with a sly smile. “When I was your age, I was as tall as I am  
today, all knees and elbows and not pretty to look upon. The knees and  
elbows have slowly disappeared, but I fear the rest has never changed, and  
right now I look even worse.”

 

“Are you in pain?” Anakil asked.

 

“No. The healer made me swallow a strange tasting tea, and most of the pain  
and the fever disappeared. I feel a little light-headed, almost as if I  
have had too much of bad wine, but it is better than feeling the pain. Much  
better. I have never been wounded before, and I have to admit I do not like  
it very much.”

 

Anakil chuckled. “I know a lot of people who are convinced it is a good  
sign to be in pain. It assures you that you are not dead yet.”

 

“I know people who talk like that, too.” Beldil rolled his eyes in mock  
desperation. “Most of them are healers.” His eyes searched the  
surroundings, and he put one finger to his lips. “Don’t tell the healer I  
said this,” he whispered. “At least don’t tell him as long as I am in no  
condition to run.”

 

Anakil suppressed a smile and nodded gravely. “I promise. But you have to  
show me who he is, for beside the Rangers named Anborn and Galdor and the  
third of our company whose name I did not get, I do not know anyone in this  
company. I even don’t know the Captain. Is he around?”

 

“The Captain? No, he is out with everybody else. Anborn told me one of our  
Lieutenants went missing seven days ago. He and his party were pursuing a  
rather large host of Orcs, and they sent a man to summon help. The Captain  
set out immediately with every man in the fighting condition, but their  
tracks disappeared at the shores of Anduin and were not found again. We  
fear our men might have been overwhelmed by the Orcs, but the Captain does  
not give up easily. He is leading a party to look for them, he won’t be  
back before nightfall, I guess.”

 

Anakil drew his knees to his stomach and locked his arms around his calves  
for support. “Do you know him well?”

 

“The Captain or the Lieutenant?”

 

“The Captain.”

 

“He is a noble lord, a good leader, and I believe he really cares for us,”  
Beldil said slowly. “I joined this company when I was about your age, but I  
have never been a fighter. I like to move about, to find my own path, and  
the Captain was kind enough to let me be a messenger. I have been away  
running errands for the better part of ten years now.

 

I cannot claim to know the Captain well, he is my Captain, not my friend,  
but I will gladly lay down my life for him, for he is what holds this  
company together, and this company is my life, my home and a part of my  
family.”

 

“And the Lieutenant? The one that is missing with his men?”

 

“He is one of the best. He always tells me that I talk too much.” Beldil  
laughed quietly. “You know, he is right, I always talk too much. Maybe that  
is the curse of messengers. They deal with messages all day, written and  
spoken words.”

 

“Have you delivered your messages yet?”

 

The smile disappeared from Beldil’s face. “I may talk too much sometimes,  
but I never talk about an errand, only to the one man I was sent to find.”  
He scrutinized the boy with a questioning gaze. “You have not been taught  
the rules of the written, spoken and concealed words?”

 

Anakil shook his head and cast down his eyes to avoid Beldil’s hard stare.  
“This is my first errand outside the confines of Osgiliath,” he admitted.

 

“Then let me give one piece of advice.” Beldil paused until Anakil raised  
his eyes to look at him. “Never talk about the contents of a message,  
neither to your friend, nor to your enemy. You never know who is listening,  
and you cannot be sure that your friend is your friend. Do not hand a  
written message to anyone other than to the man you were told to seek out.  
If you cannot deliver a written message, destroy it before you have to  
leave it behind or surrender it to other hands. Lives may depend on the few  
words you carry in your mind or in your pockets.

 

Words are weapons, just as sharp as spears and swords and arrows, and when  
you know how to wield them, you wield a power that is as dangerous and  
terrifying as any other weapon people use in times of war.

 

If you have the choice between fighting and running, run. Nobody will know  
you died a hero’s death if none lives to deliver the message.” Beldil spoke  
slowly, carefully, making sure the boy understood what he was talking  
about.

 

Anakil nodded slowly, his hand creeping to the message in his pocket. “I  
will remember your advice,” he said. “Every single word of it.”

 

Beldil raised his right hand again and clasped Anakil’s forearm. “I know  
you will,” he said. “But I bet in an hour or two you won’t be able to  
recall every single word.”

 

“I will,” Anakil smiled. “Believe me, I will.”

 

“He is not singing yet, but he is talking again!” The Ranger Galdor  
approached the mattress and bent down to carefully ruffle Beldil’s hair  
with one hand. “You got me worried on our ride this morning, for you did  
not utter a single word. I started to fear you were fatally hurt.”

 

“It takes more than a few arrows to silence me for long,” Beldil replied  
and swatted away the hand on his head. “Stop that, you are starting the  
headache again. And you are ruining my hair.”

 

Galdor grinned and planted a brotherly kiss on Beldil’s head before he sat  
down next to the mattress. “There is not much to ruin, I am sorry to tell  
you, my friend. You look better than you did this morning, but still bad  
enough to frighten small children. How do you feel?”

 

“It is a good sign to be in pain, for it assures you that you are not dead  
yet, as our young friend here was so kind to remind me” he replied and  
pointed at Anakil.

 

Anakil raised his hands in a gesture of peace and greeting and listened to  
the friendly bantering and jesting of the Rangers. They seemed to know each  
other well, and he was content just to smile at their conversation, until  
Beldil got tired and fell asleep and Galdor strolled away to do whatever a  
Ranger did when he was not talking with a wounded comrade and was not out  
fighting in the woods.

 

Anakil felt exhaustion overwhelm him, and he closed his eyes to get some  
sleep as well.

 

 

When the boy woke again, it was late in the afternoon. The cave had turned  
busy during his long, deep sleep. Many Rangers had arrived and were moving  
about the camp, opening boxes and barrels to prepare dinner, fetching water  
from the fall, carrying small benches for the meal, talking or resting.  
More were still coming in through the entrance at the fall, and more  
torches were lit than during daytime.

 

Anakil rose to his feet and stretched his stiff muscles. He spotted Anborn  
talking to a group of his fellow Rangers, and as he looked down at Beldil  
he found the messenger and his mattress gone. All the mattresses of the  
wounded had been brought away, Anakil guessed they had been moved behind  
the curtain at the end of the cave to enable the rest they needed above  
all.

 

He rubbed his shoulder blades, numb from leaning against the hard wall for  
hours, and the pain hit as some circulation returned. He started to move to  
give two Rangers a hand with a heavy looking wooden bench when a grave but  
gentle voice addressed him from behind.

 

“Anakil son of Anabar.”

 

He paused and turned around.

 

The Ranger that had spoken to him was tall, even taller than Anborn, rough  
cut black hair framed a stern face, and keen grey eyes looked down at the  
boy from under dark lashes. His green and brown clothes were stained, his  
boots well worn, and he had his hands clasped behind his back. “Anborn told  
me that you would like to see the fall when the sun goes down. I will take  
you there.”

 

Anakil followed the tall Ranger out of the cave, to the doorstep below the  
fall. The sun was about to disappear behind the horizon, and her red light  
was broken by the falling water, casting the thin veil into flickering  
shades of red, like a burning fire.

 

The Ranger folded his arms across his chest, and Anakil caught a glimpse of  
a long sword he carried at his belt. He felt intimidated by this stern  
man’s presence, and he was in awe of Ithilien’s beauty opening up before  
him.

 

“I was told you have come from Osgiliath to deliver a message?” the Ranger  
started to speak as the sun disappeared, and the fire burned down in the  
water of the fall.

 

‘Never talk about the contents of message, neither to your friend, nor to  
your enemy,’ Beldil’s advice echoed in Anakil’s mind. “My message is for  
the Captain alone,” he replied.

 

“Then speak, for I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor and of the Ithilien  
Rangers.”

 

Anakil noted the quiet authority in the man’s behaviour, his commanding  
voice, and also the concerned and weary look in his grey eyes. He had seen  
men with eyes like this before, Captains who had just lost part of their  
company, or worried about some of their men, as Beldil had told him. He  
scolded himself for not seeing what was plainly in front of his eyes. He  
took a look around and realized they were alone, all men that had been  
moving about before had quietly departed.

 

His fingers dove into his pocket to present the message, and for the first  
time he noticed the bloody fingerprints he had left on the white paper  
while fingering it after killing the Orc. “My lord,” he said and bowed his  
head. “I was sent here to deliver this message, and to tell you in person  
that Mablung and his company have reached Osgiliath safely and with minor  
injuries only. These injuries force them to spend at least a week at  
Osgiliath, before returning to Ithilien and giving a full account of the  
errand in person. Mablung has given the uninjured fellows two days leave,  
either to see their families or to find some - distraction from duty in  
Minas Tirith, as he had put it, and he personally vows for their timely  
return. He has sent me, I can only quote his words again, to make sure you  
do not worry about his well-being, for you already worry entirely too much,  
my lord.”

 

Anakil could not read the Captain’s face, as the man nodded at his words  
and took the sealed message from his hand, moving his thumb slowly over one  
of the bloody fingerprints. He took a look at the seal, and his brow  
narrowed in a frown.

 

Anakil had noticed the strange seal before, it was a patch of green wax,  
but instead of the rough outline of a ring, there was only a fingerprint  
visible in the wax, and two small lines, like the scratch of a fingernail,  
crossed in the middle.

 

The Captain broke the seal, pulled out a small piece of paper and read the  
words in the last light of the fading day. Suddenly a smile crept onto his  
face, transforming his stern features into the likeable face of the boy he  
must have been a long time ago, and Anakil felt himself smiling in return.

 

“Mablung,” the Captain muttered under his breath and shook his head, still  
smiling.

 

“My lord?” Anakil said and forced the grin off his face. He did not now if  
he should take his leave or request an answer, so he crossed his hands on  
his back and kept his curiosity at bay, until the Captain had finished the  
message and decided to talk to him again.

 

The Captain read the message twice, a small smile playing at the corners of  
his mouth, a flickering light in his grey eyes. He took a long look out  
through the waterfall onto Anduin, glistening in the distance, then he put  
a heavy hand on the boy’s narrow shoulders. “You are the bearer of good  
news, young Anakil. I fear there is far too little good news in these  
times. Mablung’s company, for which we have searched in vain for days, has  
reached Osgiliath safely, and all of them are alive. The host of Orcs in  
their pursuit was taken care of by the men of Osgiliath. It must have been  
Mablung himself who gave you the errand, can you tell me if he was among  
the injured?”

 

Anakil nodded. “The man who wrote the message in my presence was slightly  
limping on his right foot, and he was cursing the Orcs’ spears in every  
second sentence. He never introduced himself to me, for I am only the  
messenger.”

 

“Anborn told me you are also an able warrior,” Captain Faramir stated. “You  
have to tell your story when Beldil is on his feet again to join us.”

 

Anakil felt a blush creep onto his cheeks. “I will, if my lord commands,  
but there is no great story to tell.”

 

“Beldil can make an entertaining story out of the smallest event, and I am  
sure you can do that as well, for you are a messenger like him, and all  
messengers I have met so far are very able in the game of words. Let us now  
join the men and tell your good news, and thereafter have a meal together.  
You are our guest tonight, young Anakil.”

 

“Thank you very much for your kindness, my lord,” Anakil said and bowed  
again.

 

The Captain stepped into the cave and raised his hand, and the men fell  
silent at once. The Captain’s voice echoed through the cave as he announced  
that Mablung and his company were safe, and the men cheered in response.

Anakil stayed at the Captain’s side, and he found himself cheering as well.

 

Suddenly the men grew quiet and stepped aside to form a passage in their  
middle. Galdor and Anborn slowly walked through the cleared path,  
supporting Beldil between themselves. The messenger’s face was flushed from  
the strain of standing upright and moving.

 

The three men stopped in front of the Captain. Anborn let go of Beldil’s  
waist and stepped back into the crowd of Rangers.

 

Beldil was panting heavily but managed to raise his head in proud defiance,  
his left arm draped across Galdor’s shoulders for support. The Ranger had  
his left hand on Beldil’s left elbow, carefully avoiding touching the  
broken wrist, his right arm wrapped around the messenger’s waist.

 

Beldil needed some time to get his heavy breathing under control, and his  
fellow Rangers patiently waited for him to speak.

 

Beldil’s right hand slowly crept under his shirt, and he pulled out three  
white envelopes, wrinkled and dirt stained but without tears in the thin  
paper. He carefully bowed his bandaged head and presented the envelopes to  
the Captain. “Captain Faramir,” he said. “I was sent to deliver these  
messages from Minas Tirith.”

 

Do not hand a written message to anyone other than to the man you were told  
to seek out. Anakil could almost hear the words in his head. You cannot be  
sure that your friend is your friend.

 

Captain Faramir accepted the envelopes with a smile on his stern face and  
bowed his head in return. “Thank you, Beldil.” He put his hand on the  
messenger’s shoulder. “I have heard you fought well.” The Captain’s smile  
widened. “For a messenger.” The assembled Rangers roared with laughter. “Go  
now and rest, for I guess these Orcs will appear like no more than flies on  
the wall when the healer has finished with you.”

 

“Aye, Captain, I fear you are quite right.” Beldil bowed again, and Galdor  
helped the messenger to turn around and slowly make his way back to his bed  
behind a curtain.

 

Anakil laughed and cheered for the brave messenger with the merry crowd,  
his young voice clearly distinguishable from the deeper tones of the  
Rangers. The Captain laughed as well, taking a short glance at the three  
messages in his hand. His gaze lingered on the seals for a second or two,  
and Anakil, standing next to the tall man, caught a glimpse of alarm and  
worry on the handsome face.

 

The boy stopped laughing, waiting for the Captain to announce the cause of  
his sudden change in mood, but the Captain put the messages into a pocket  
of his cloak, and when he raised his head, he was laughing again. But the  
laughter did not reach his eyes.

 

Anakil felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, startled, and found  
Anborn standing beside him. The tall Ranger put a finger on his lips and  
shook his head, and Anakil realized Anborn had seen the concern on the  
Captain’s face as well. He wanted to ask what was going on, but Anborn let  
go of his shoulder and quietly disappeared into the crowd.

 

The boy decided to keep quiet for the time, for Captain Faramir’s concerns  
were none of his business after all. The Captain made his way through his  
cheering men, talking and grasping hands, but when he shortly turned  
around, Anakil could see that the laughter of his mouth had not been able  
to banish the anxiety from his eyes.

 

 


	4. The Ranger Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some  
fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the  
errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of  
Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out  
and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

 

IV

 

It was midnight, the most quiet hour in Ithilien. Shadows dancing in  
flickering candlelight. Only the dripping sound of the waterfall in the  
distance. Deep snoring, hundreds of men sleeping side by side, for some  
precious hours free of the concerns and worries of a Ranger’s life. The air  
fresh but not chilling. Darkness veiling the landscape, moon and stars  
hiding behind a thin layer of clouds. The world seemed to hold its breath.

 

The four messages lay on the mattress, divided into three and one, parted  
by a long sword placed between them. The strange seal of the one message  
above the blade had been broken by a rough hand, but the message had been  
put back into the dirty envelope. All other seals appeared to have been  
sliced open with a knife, the wrinkled paper of the messages smoothed down  
and placed besides the envelopes.

 

The lonely Ranger sat on his mattress with his legs crossed under his body,  
his grey eyes fixed on the messages, unblinking in the dim light. He moved  
his right hand to touch the bloody fingerprint on the one message, the only  
good news in months. He knew it was safe to be lost in thought and relish  
the silence. There were guards in the woods and in the tunnel.

 

While his eyes fluttered shut, the Ranger thought about many things, the  
wind, the trees, the Company. It was in moments like these, when Ithilien  
appeared to be quiet, when he thought of peace, if only for a fleeting  
moment.

 

“Peace,” he whispered. It had been a while since he had last taken his time  
to even think about peace, let alone voice the word.

 

He realized he did not really know peace. He had never had the chance to  
enjoy it, for peace had not come to stay in the realms of Gondor for a long  
time now. Neither peace of arms nor peace of mind.

 

He passed his hands over his now closed eyes, a low weary sigh escaping his  
throat.

 

How could he dare to whisper the word, when he even did not find the peace  
of mind to get some sleep in the midnight hour? How could he think of  
sleep, when three seals of Gondor, imprints of the Steward’s ring, stared  
at him in the dim candlelight, mocking him? Imprints of a ring he knew too  
well. The small imprints that had concealed simple but powerful words  
written in a neat handwriting prevented him from finding sleep. Words,  
whose journey through the wild had almost cost a prize much too high. From  
the moment he had laid his eyes on these imprints, he had known all three  
messages contained ill news. The Steward of Gondor had written and sealed  
each one personally, and the Steward never bothered to write the short and  
rare good news.

 

He had visited Beldil after dinner, making sure the injured man was  
recovering well. He had also talked to Anakil, but the young messenger had  
been very shy, unwilling to volunteer any information he did not ask for  
directly. He was so small, his face that of a boy, his dark eyes innocent,  
his hoarse voice so very different from the deep rumbling laughter of the  
Rangers. It seemed so very wrong to force a boy that small into killing and  
war.

 

Beldil had told him the boy was almost sixteen, and therefore he wasn’t a  
child any more, but that didn’t change the fact that it felt wrong to  
decide over his young life and maybe his death with a single order.

 

The Ranger sighed again. He suddenly remembered that he had been the young  
messenger’s age when he had joined the Ithilien Rangers. He had been a mere  
boy then, he knew that now, but he had turned into a soldier faster than he  
had thought possible. He had grown used to living a simple life, to  
killing, to fighting, to following and uttering orders.

 

But he remembered that in the beginning, he had been lonely. He had felt  
lost. He had been like this boy, maybe a little stronger and a lot taller,  
but otherwise he had been exactly like him. He had tried to understand what  
it meant to be at war, had tried to fit into a place too foreign and cruel  
for a boy, where he had to grow up quickly to get along and survive.

 

It felt as if there lay many lifetimes between the boy that had left Minas  
Tirith so many years ago and the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers that now  
could not find his well earned rest.

 

You already worry entirely too much, my lord. Words spoken by the boy.  
Words Mablung had told him in Osgiliath - the truth.

 

But how could he not worry? With the confirmation of Gondor’s strength  
slowly but inevitably failing, how could he keep the dark thoughts at bay,  
alone, in the darkness of the night?

 

There was a low crashing sound at the other side of the curtain that  
separated his small recess from the open cave. His hand shot to the hilt of  
his sword, but he did not touch the weapon. His fingers hovered inched  
above the cold metal, then moved to his belt to draw his dagger instead.  
There could be not danger great enough to justify the use of a sword in the  
cave of Henneth Annûn. In a noiseless motion he rose to his feet and  
swiftly pulled back the curtain.

 

There was a moving shape visible in the flickering light of his single  
candle. He grabbed its narrow shoulders, forcefully turned it around and  
pressed its back against his own chest. His dagger came to rest at the  
shape’s throat.

 

“Don’t move your hands,” he whispered into the small form’s ear. “Show me  
your face, slowly.”

 

He loosened his grip and let the figure turn around. The dagger stayed at  
its throat without cutting.

 

Two fearful dark eyes gazed up at him from under a mop of black hair.  
“Anakil.” He immediately lowered his weapon. “What are you doing, sneaking  
around the camp at midnight?”

 

 

“My lord.” Anakil himself winced at the high squeaking tone of his answer  
and hated his breaking voice for its unpredictability. “I am sorry, my  
lord, I did not mean to wake you. Oh, you have a candle burning, so you  
were not asleep. I did not mean to disturb you, either. And I was not  
sneaking around, my lord. I have slept all afternoon, I am not tired now. I  
was just looking for a cup to get some water from the fall.” His hand crept  
to his throat to rub the spot where the dagger had touched his skin. “I am  
a stranger here, so I do not know where the cups are kept. I did not want  
to wake somebody to ask, my lord. I...” He realized he was rambling about and  
shut his mouth rather abruptly. “I must have tripped in the darkness,” he  
added and lowered his gaze. “I am sorry, my lord.”

 

The Captain sheathed his dagger and folded his hand on his back. “You do  
not have to call me lord. My men call me Captain, there is no reason why  
you could not do so as well.”

 

“As you wish, my lord - Captain.” Anakil almost bit his tongue and tried to  
control his rapid breathing. He had never been this startled before.

 

The Captain smiled and stepped back into the small recess behind the  
curtain. “Do you care to keep me company for a while?” he asked the boy.  
“We are obviously both wide awake.”

 

“Of course, Captain.” Anakil followed the Captain and closed the curtain  
behind him.

 

The recess was small. The cave’s wall formed three sides, the forth was  
shielded from view by the curtain. There was a small hollow in the  
stonewall on the left to hold a little lamp, a pitcher of water and a small  
wooden cup. On the floor lay a thin mattress, there were no other pieces of  
furniture.

 

The Captain lit the little lamp and blew out the candle. “You may sit  
down,” he said. “This is not a king’s study, but it allows a certain amount  
of privacy.” He sat down on the mattress, his back against the wall.

 

Anakil lowered himself onto the hard ground, drew his knees to his body and  
wrapped one arm around his shins. His gaze strayed to the sword on the  
mattress and the letters arrayed above and below the shining blade. He did  
not want to stare, but the three messages Beldil had carried caught his  
interest. He noticed the broken identical seals and the same handwriting on  
all three sheets of paper. It was hard not to try and read the words, but  
he knew these messages were not meant for his eyes.

 

“Can you read, if you do not mind me asking?” the Captain said.

 

Anakil tore his gaze away from the mattress. “Yes, Captain, I can read. I  
am a farmer’s son, but mother taught me to read and write in several  
languages when I was a small boy. She always said I would be grateful for  
her lessons one day.”

 

“Your mother is a wise woman,” the Captain said.

 

“She was indeed,” Anakil agreed.

 

The Captain caught the use of the past tense and cocked his head in a  
silent question.

 

“She died last winter,” Anakil added.

 

“I am sorry,” the Captain said softly.

 

They spent some time in companionable silence. The Captain did not try to  
hide the letters, and Anakil succeeded in resisting the urge to read them.

 

“Anborn told me you are of the Anduin,” the Captain finally said. “Tell me  
about your home.”

 

“Why?” Anakil asked. The Captain’s request did not make sense. Nobody had  
ever been interested in his life, not even the other boys at Osgiliath.

 

“We are an outpost. We rely on messages from the other garrisons and the  
city to get to know what comes to pass west of the Anduin.” The Captain  
picked off the three letters from below the sword. His voice was low but  
harsh. “The last messages from Minas Tirith, from the Steward’s very own  
hand. They are no secret orders. They are just pieces of information I will  
announce to the Company in the morning. I did not do so tonight for I did  
not want to spoil the happiness about Mablung’s safety. There are far too  
few reasons to celebrate in these times.

 

The first letter tells us the Steward cannot send one single man to  
reinforce the Company. He even cannot cover our losses, and our losses are  
great.

 

The second letter, written on the day after the first was sealed, informs  
us that we cannot expect any shipment of supplies from Minas Tirith for the  
rest of the month. The council has decided, in my absence, to cut short our  
supplies for the benefit of the ill supplied Osgiliath Company.

 

The third letter, written on the same day as the second, reports that large  
bands of Orcs have been sighted near the eastern shore of Anduin, moving  
towards Osgiliath. We are ordered to extend our patrols to keep Ithilien  
under control and prevent an attack on the bridge and garrison of  
Osgiliath.”

 

“Why do you tell me about this, Captain?”

 

The Captain sighed. “It makes no difference if you hear it now or in the  
morning. And maybe you can understand now that I long to hear something  
good, something that is not connected with war and death. I know all my  
Ranger’s stories, but most of them have been with the Company for years.  
Their stories are about fighting and killing and struggling to survive. You  
are not old enough, you cannot have forgotten about your home, about a life  
without fighting. Please, tell me about it.” There was no harshness now in  
the Captain’s voice. It was just a request.

 

Anakil nodded, locked his free arm around his shins as well. He was in the  
mood to talk, and he realized he kind of liked the Captain. “Father’s house  
is near the isle of Cair Andros, on the western shores of Anduin,” he  
started, his eyes cast down to escape the Captain’s gaze, his voice low.  
“We cannot see the island, but there are always soldiers on the roads. It’s  
a big house, made of stone and wood. My grandfather built it with his own  
hands. It is a simple place, but it is a good home for a family.

 

“Father was a soldier when I was very young, but he lost his sword arm in a  
fight. Now he stays home to take care of the farm.

 

“My father is a good farmer, and he breeds horses as well. Our horses are  
not as fine as the horses of Rohan, but they are good and loyal workers.  
The young foals play on a meadow between the house and the river. For three  
years I have been responsible for breaking the young horses to the saddle,  
for I do not weigh much and do not put much strain on the young animals  
back.

 

“My two brothers, twins, left for the army some years ago. They are great  
warriors now, and father is proud of them. My three sisters are all  
married. The oldest is already the mother of two girls. My sister and her  
family have come to stay and help since mother died this winter. The girls  
run around the house, laughing and giggling, and all the soldiers on the  
roads stop to look at them and talk to them. My sister’s husband is in the  
army as well, but he serves at Cair Andros and can be home with his family  
almost once a week. He sometimes helps my father with the horses, for my  
father cannot break a horse properly with his missing arm.”

 

Anakil raised his gaze and realized the Captain had put away the message  
and had been listening with his eyes closed.

 

“How long has it been since you have last been home?” he asked, not  
bothering to open his eyes.

 

“Three months,” Anakil said. “I joined the army nine months ago, and I have  
been home only once.”

 

“You have a good home,” the Captain said. “A home worth fighting for.”

 

“I know Captain. I only hope I will make my father as proud as my brothers  
do.”

 

“What makes you think he is not proud of you now?” The Captain opened one  
eye to look at him.

 

Anakil avoided the Captains questioning gaze. “I have seen the light in his  
eyes when my brothers come to visit and tell about great fights and  
perilous adventures. My greatest wish is to see that light, too, when I  
come home to tell my stories.”

 

“The greatest achievement in the army is returning home with your body  
intact,” the Captain said. “No family can cheer for a dead warrior.”

 

“I am not a warrior at all,” Anakil said bitterly. “Maybe I will never be a  
warrior. I have served in the Osgiliath Company for nine month now, but no  
commander has agreed to train me as a warrior. I am too small and they  
think I am not strong enough. They have given me a short sword and a short  
bow, for I cannot wield a normal sword and a long bow properly. Every time  
I ask they tell me to come back when I have grown at least three inches.”  
Anakil placed his elbows on his bent knees and rubbed his eyes with the  
palms of his hands. The Captain was an easy man to talk to, and the boy was  
sure he listened well. He had said much more than he had intended to.

 

I always talk too much. Beldil’s voice echoed in his head once more. Maybe  
that is the curse of messengers. The messenger had been right with  
everything he had said so far.

 

They sat in silence for a long time.

 

“Who sent you here?” the Captain finally asked, stretching the simple  
question by pausing between the words.

 

Anakil knew there was no use in lying. “The Ranger called Mablung sent me,”  
he said. “He was looking for a messenger in Osgiliath, for he had sent all  
of his healthy men on leave. But all messengers and swift horses were out  
or not available.”

 

“All messengers? What about you?”

 

“All messengers... I was... I am an errand runner in Osgiliath, among many  
other things. He saw me delivering a message to the master of the horses  
and asked me if I could ride out for him. I think he was a little drugged,  
his speech was slightly slurred sometimes, and I saw him limping to the  
healer when I left. It is not his fault, he considered me to be a real  
messenger, and I did not correct him. He gave me a rough description of  
where to go and whom to look for, and I jumped at the opportunity. I took  
his message, gathered my sword and my bow, stole a messenger’s shirt with  
the sign of Gondor and one of the working horses and left the garrison  
before Mablung could think about me again.”

 

Anakil drew in a shaky breath and waited for a reprimand, but the Captain  
remained silent.

 

“I am almost sixteen years old. I have been an errand runner, a horse boy,  
an assistant to the healer and sometimes even a barber for nine month now,”  
he started to defend his actions. “When I joined the army I wanted to fight  
for my family’s safety. If I had wanted to care for horses, I would have  
stayed home.”

 

The Captain silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Do not try to justify  
your actions, for you know that you have done wrong.”

 

Anakil nodded in agreement. “Yes, my lord, I know.”

 

“But you showed great courage by not even trying to lie to me.”

 

Anakil nodded again.

 

“Tell me, did you enjoy fighting the Orc?”

 

Anakil shook his head, confused by the sudden change of topic. “No, I did  
not. And I did not fight the Orc, I just killed it. I approached it from  
behind and killed it with my sword. I do not think it knew what hit it.  
This was the first living being I killed, apart from animals of course. And  
to be honest, I got quite sick afterwards.”

 

“Most of the warriors do after their first kill,” the Captain said. “Things  
happen when the tension is over.”

 

“Anborn told me the exact same thing.”

 

“You have a good memory.”

 

“That’s why they made me an errand runner in Osgiliath,” Anakil explained.  
“Some of them cannot write, but they discovered I am able to recall every  
single word of a conversation, even if this conversation has taken place a  
long time ago. So when they could not or did not want to write it down,  
they called for me.”

 

Suddenly the Captain rose to his feet. He loomed tall over the sitting boy,  
his grey eyes black in the flickering light. Anakil instinctively lowered  
his head, waiting for his punishment.

 

Nothing happened.

 

The Captain got the pitcher and the cup from the hollow in the wall and  
checked on the lamp. “I almost forgot you were looking for water when we  
stumbled about each other.” He turned around and smiled a strange little  
smile. “Would you like some now?”

 

Anakil shook his head. His shoulders slumped in relief, and he laughed  
quietly. “I do not understand you, my lord. Here I am, confessing my wrongs  
and waiting for my punishment, and all you do is offer a cup of water.”

 

“You did wrong indeed, but you also did something right,” the Captain said  
and poured water into the cup. “Do not hope to get away without punishment,  
but I have to think about this for a while.” He stooped and placed the cup  
in Anakil’s hands. “Drink this and then try to sleep, young friend. We will  
speak again in the morning.”

 

Anakil obediently took the water and swallowed it in three quick gulps.  
“Thank you, my lord,” he said and rose to his feet to put the cup back into  
the hollow. “Whatever you decide to do with me, I will accept your  
judgement.”

 

The Captain put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sleep,” he just said. “You  
have earned your rest.”

 

Anakil bowed and drew back the curtain to leave. He almost walked into a  
Ranger that had silently approached the curtain from the other side. The  
boy stepped back, startled.

 

The Ranger did not even blink in surprise. “Captain,” he said. “We have  
caught a rather unusual intruder. You better take a look at him yourself.”

 

Captain Faramir picked up his long sword from the mattress, blew out his  
lamp, threw his cloak over his shoulders and silently disappeared with the  
Ranger into the darkness of the night.

 


	5. The Spies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some  
fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the  
errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of  
Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out  
and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

V

The sun had climbed high enough to light the veil of the waterfall at the  
entrance of the cave, and Anborn decided that the boy should rest no  
longer. The Ranger looked down at the sleeping form in the dim light of the  
few torches on the walls. The boy had not even stirred when the Company of  
Rangers had started their day with the rising sun. The Captain had  
announced some news, including some new information about the boy, but his  
loud voice and the following murmuring of the Rangers had not disturbed the  
sleeping youth either.

They had decided to let him have his rest. The boy was still a guest in  
Henneth Annûn, after all.

All patrols were out now, following the orders from Minas Tirith and moving  
further to the south, searching the wild for hidden bands of Orcs and other  
creatures of the darkness.

Anborn raised one big, brown, dirty boot and placed it heavily on the boy’s  
chest. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, and he tried to move. Anborn pressed  
down his heel to keep him pinned to the ground, careful not to disturb his  
breathing. The boy’s gaze found first the Ranger’s boots, than his face,  
and Anborn set his features into a grim frown. He held no grudge against  
the youth, but he did not intend to tell him that, at least not now.

A touch of panic crossed the boy’s sleep heavy face, but he quickly gained  
control of his expression. “Good morning, Anborn,” he croaked and tried to  
wiggle out from under the boot once more.

Anborn was not about to let him go that easily. He agreed with the Captain  
that Anakil had to be punished somehow for leaving his post in Osgiliath.  
Beldil would vehemently object to any kind of punishment at all, and Anborn  
admitted that the messenger had a good reason for speaking up for the boy.  
He owed his life to him. And the Company owed him not only the life of a  
messenger but the safe delivery of three of the Steward’s messages. The  
Ranger was glad the choice of a just and appropriate punishment lay with  
the Captain and not with him.

He only wanted to frighten the youth a little, to show him that the Company  
knew all about his wrongs, and that nobody, except Beldil, was willing to  
just overlook his actions. He increased the pressure of his heel, and the  
boy realized that struggling against the tall man would not lead to  
freedom.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Anborn said with his best snarl. “Or should I  
call you troublemaker?”

“What time is it?” Anakil asked and tried to move his head to take a look  
around the cave.

Anborn shifted his boot, keeping the boy’s small frame in contact with to  
the ground. “It’s too late for breakfast and too early for lunch.” He eased  
the pressure on the boy’s shoulder a little. He did not intend to hurt him.  
“You sleep like the dead.”

“I’m sorry.” Anakil took a deep breath and turned onto his right side,  
shrugging off the boot that had woken him and kept him in place. Free of  
the restraining weight, he sat up quickly to avoid getting pinned down  
again. “I’m sorry for any trouble I caused.” He brushed the dirt Anborn’s  
boot had left off his shirt.

Anborn was impressed with the boy’s quick movements. “Do not speak in the  
past tense,” he grunted and tossed the boy a piece of bread and some cheese  
he had saved from his own breakfast. “You are still causing trouble. Eat.”

The boy caught the food and took a careful look around the cave. His gaze  
lingered at the four mattresses with the wounded. The healer was tending to  
them, and the boy seemed to be satisfied. The curtain at the end of the  
cave was open, showing the Captain’s small private recess. The alcove was  
empty, and the boy’s gaze strayed around the cave, searching for the  
Captain’s tall figure. Anborn knew his search was in vain, the Captain was  
out with one of the patrols.

Large chunks of bread disappeared into the youth’s mouth, and Anborn  
remembered his own insatiable appetite when he had been growing up. “Get  
up,” he commanded briskly. “You can eat on the way.”

Anakil obediently scrambled to his feet and stuffed some more bread into  
his mouth. He tried to straighten his rumpled clothing and rubbed some  
sleep out of his eyes. “Where are we going?” he asked, his voice muffled.

“Out,” Anborn told him. “We are visiting an intruder we caught last night.  
An intruder you brought here, troublemaker.” He frowned at the boy again,  
just to unsettle him a little more.

“I did not bring anybody!” Anakil protested and stopped shoving his  
breakfast into his mouth. “You cannot blame it on me that someone tried to  
spy on you.”

Anborn decided that he did not want to scare the boy into defiance. He  
smiled a little and his eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry; it is not as bad as it  
sounds.” He put a hand on the youth’s shoulder to steer him into the  
direction of the tunnel. “We are quite impressed with you, troublemaker.  
You really had me convinced, you know.”

“Convinced of what?” Anakil did not resist as Anborn led him through the  
dark, narrow tunnel that was the only entrance to the cave. If the boy was  
surprised at not getting blindfolded again, he did not show it.

“You will see,” Anborn said. He was glad that the boy was walking in front  
of him and therefore did not see the silent laughter in his eyes.

They left the tunnel and stepped into the rocky, scarcely vegetated area  
next to the river.

The boy squinted in the bright sunlight and turned around to look at his  
guide. “What are we doing here?” he asked. “I remember this place. You  
covered my eyes here yesterday, and we sent the horse away.”

“The Captain mentioned your excellent memory,” Anborn said. “You did send  
the horse back to Osgiliath?”

“Yes, I did. You were there, you heard me,” Anakil answered, confused.  
“Every messenger’s horse knows the way home.”

“Is it a real messenger’s horse, or only as real as you are a real  
messenger?”

The boy blushed slightly and did not come up with an answer.

Anborn shook his head and whistled. Seemingly out of nowhere two Rangers  
appeared. Anborn smiled at the boy’s startled expression. “Take us to our  
intruder,” he said and nudged Anakil’s shoulder. “Go ahead, follow them.”

Without a word, the Rangers strode away into the thin overgrown woodland.  
Anakil had to hurry to keep up with them. Anborn stayed at the rear, the  
hand at his sword, for even though this part of Ithilien was well protected  
by the Rangers, there was no guarantee that enemies would be noticed in  
time.

They stopped at a small clearing framed by big, rough shaped rocks, and two  
more Rangers joined them out of the shadows of their posts. Below one of  
the big rocks there was a dark shape lying on the ground, the shadow of a  
big animal.

“There he is, our spy,” Anborn said, and he smiled. “I hope you can explain  
how he got here.”

“I did not do anything wrong!” Anakil said.

At the sound of the boy’s voice, the shadow of the animal moved. A big head  
turned to look in the direction which the sound had come from, and a low  
grunt of delight could be heard. The shadow rose; it was a horse, a big,  
brown, heavy, quite ugly horse, bare backed, the big head bare as well.  
There was a rope around his thick neck to keep it from running away, and  
now it tried to tear the rope loose from where it was fastened between the  
rocks to reach the boy.

“Is that you, old boy?” the boy asked, disbelief in his voice. “Is that  
really you? What are you doing here?” He stepped forward without asking for  
permission. One of the guards moved his hand to his bow, but Anborn stopped  
him with a short movement of his hand.

The horse greeted Anakil by rubbing his big head against the narrow  
shoulders, and it snorted in delight when the boy started to caress its  
nose. “Hello, old boy.” The horse lowered his nose to ruffle the boy’s  
wrinkled cloak in search for something edible. Anakil pushed the big head  
away and folded his arms across his chest. “Do you think you deserve a  
reward for being here?” The horse snickered, and the boy swatted him over  
the head with his flat hand. “You are nothing but big trouble, you know?”

Anborn had to bite his lower lip to keep the laughter at bay. Horse and  
rider were quite alike. “You and your horse kept some of us awake for  
almost all night,” he said. “The horse was spotted by our first guards far  
away from here. They followed it to the entrance of the tunnel. It seemed  
to know the way, for it did not stray from the direct path. Nobody stopped  
it, for all of us were curious where this lonely horse was going. We needed  
five men to prevent it from entering the tunnel and getting injured in the  
process. There is a good reason we do not have any horses around here. The  
tunnel is too narrow for them, and we do not want to be found by our  
horses’ camps in the woods.”

“He tried to enter the tunnel?” Anakil asked in disbelief. “Why?”

“My guess is he was looking for you,” Anborn shrugged. “He was lucky Darung  
was on watch and recognized him. Otherwise he might have caught an arrow or  
two. We do not like uninvited guests in our camp.”

“I am sorry,” Anakil said. “I really ordered him to go back to Osgiliath. I  
swear. I will order him again. He will go this time. I promise, you will  
never see him again.” The boy patted the animal’s thick neck tenderly. “He  
is not a real messenger’s horse, as you have guessed, but he is a good and  
loyal animal. Please don’t hurt him.”

“The Captain decided last night that he will stay with us as long as you  
do. We cannot risk him returning to you again and leading other creatures  
to our cave.”

“But...” the boy started.

“He will stay,” Anborn interrupted his objection. “Do not question the  
Captain’s decision. I voted to just kill the ugly beast and go back to  
sleep, but the Captain wouldn’t let me.”

“Kill?” The boy’s eyes grew wide with fear.

“Kill.” Anborn stared down at the boy with narrow eyes. “That’s what we  
normally do with spies we catch at night.”

Anakil shut his mouth and did not open it again.

The other Rangers smirked and chuckled quietly, but the boy was so shocked  
by the thought of losing his horse, he did not notice it. He hid his face  
in the animal’s long mane for a moment, looking very small next to the  
heavy working horse.

“Do you know anything about hunting?” Anborn changed the subject.

The boy nodded, still stroking his horse’s nose.

“Are you able to find the way back into the cave and get your weapons? I  
left them with the healer. It’s my turn to go hunting today, and you will  
go with me.”

“I will find every path I have walked before,” the boy said proudly. “You  
blindfolded me when you led me into the cave, but your caution was in vain.  
I would have found the place again, had I really tried. You know, when you  
cannot see but have a good memory, you memorize the sound of your boots on  
the ground, you count your steps, you listen to water and wind, and you  
feel the sun on your face.”

Anborn raised his arm and pointed into the direction of the cave. “I’m glad  
you will not get lost. Now get going, we don’t have all day. Hurry up!”

“Yes, my lord.” The boy reluctantly left his horse and scurried away.

“Anakil!” Anborn called.

The boy stopped and turned around. “Yes, my lord?”

“Get the horse’s bridle as well. We might need it later on. Now hurry!”

“Yes, my lord.” The boy turned and started to run.

The horse tried to loosen the rope around his neck again to follow its  
young master, without success.

“I told you before, don’t call me my lord,” Anborn shouted after the  
retreating form. “Troublemaker!” he muttered under his breath.

“He is just a boy, Anborn,” one of the Rangers laughed and patted his  
shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on him.”

“The Captain told me to keep an eye on him. He is quite sure this boy will  
be of some use.” Anborn scratched his head and smiled to himself. “I  
haven’t had company on the hunt for quite some time now.”

“Good hunting to you, then,” the Ranger said and disappeared into the  
shadows of the few trees. His comrades followed him, and within a second  
Anborn and the horse were alone in the rocky clearing.

The Ranger approached the horse and carefully stroked the big head. “You  
are really ugly, you know, old boy?”

The horse looked at him with his big, black eyes and snorted.

Anborn snorted back.

 

 

Anakil ran all the way to the tunnel, down into the cave and to the  
mattresses of the wounded.

The healer seemed to have expected him, for he handed him his short sword  
and his bow. “Anborn told me you would come to get these,” he said.

“Thank you,” Anakil said, slightly out of breath from the run. He gazed  
down at Beldil’s sleeping form. “How is Beldil today?” He belted his sword  
and shouldered his bow and quiver.

“He is doing fine. Don’t worry about him, young friend, he will recover in  
time.”

Anakil nodded and took his leave to rush back to the clearing between the  
rocks. He almost forgot the bridle and had to turn back at the veil of the  
waterfall to get it.

Anborn waited for him, his arms folded across his chest, his left foot  
impatiently tapping on the ground. He was alone.

“Where are the others?” Anakil asked, just buying time to catch his breath.

“Around,” Anborn just said. “We go alone, just the two of us. Leave the  
bridle on the ground and follow me. You have hunted before, you said, so I  
hope I do not have to tell you to be quiet.”

“Of course not.” Anakil squared his narrow shoulders and put his hand at  
the hilt of his sword.

“What are we hunting?”

“Rabbits,” Anborn said and started walking towards the east.

“Rabbits?” Anakil dropped the bridle and had to hurry to keep up with the  
tall man’s long strides. “Why rabbits?”

“Because there are many of them in this part of Ithilien, because they  
seldom scream for help and because they taste good. Now be quiet,  
troublemaker!”

 

 

They left the sparsely vegetated area and entered the thick woodland of  
Ithilien. The sun had climbed high, casting blinding rays of light onto  
fallen leaves between the old, sturdy trees. A light, warm breeze stirred  
the branches far above, bringing movement to the hot air, the only sound in  
the forest. There were no birds, no insects, not even a beetle in the wet  
grass in the shade of the trunks.

They were moving east, away from the glistening waters of Anduin, further  
east than Anakil had ever been in his young life. Anborn did not talk, he  
moved through the undergrowth at a fast pace, almost without a sound,  
avoiding low branches and bushes with a graceful ease Anakil had not  
thought possible for a man his size and weight. The small youth had trouble  
keeping up, but he did not dare to ask the Ranger to slow down.

The boy missed the voices of birds. The silence was eerie, almost  
dangerous, and with every step to the east, it seemed to lay itself heavier  
on his heart. He wondered if Anborn felt it too, or if it was just the fear  
of a boy who had never been to the dangerous east before.

He did not see a single rabbit’s track for the better part of an hour.  
Anborn was still walking with big strides. Anakil had to do two steps for  
each of the Ranger’s, and he had to concentrate on his breathing to keep it  
quiet.

He could imagine the mountains that surrounded the land whose name nobody  
ever spoke aloud looming in the east behind the roof of trees, silent,  
frightening, menacing. How could someone like Anborn live in its shadow for  
years without giving in to the fear? Anakil grabbed the hilt of his sword,  
for a moment soothed by the cold metal and the feeling of power it gave to  
him.

Suddenly Anborn stopped and stooped to examine the ground. Anakil stopped  
as well, grateful for the opportunity to catch his breath. He leaned back  
against a tree trunk and wiped the sweat off his brow.

Anborn cursed under his breath. He looked up to scan the surroundings, his  
grey eyes piercing the thick undergrowth, searching for movements.

“Rabbits?” Anakil asked, silently hoping that the end of the fast-paced  
walk had come at last.

“Southrons,” Anborn said and cursed again. “They passed about an hour ago,  
moving to the northeast. I see only four or five set of tracks, I guess  
they were spying on one of our companies in the south.”

“How can you be so sure that they were Southrons? What about Orcs?” Anakil  
knelt down next to Anborn to take a look at the tracks. He did not see  
much, just crumbled leaves and a few imprints of boots in the grass.

“Have you ever seen Orcs moving in the sunlight?” Anborn grunted. “We have  
to be extremely careful. They might have come back round on themselves to  
see if they were pursued. I have seen them doing this more than once. Stay  
close behind me. And be quiet!”

“You want to hunt rabbits with Southrons around?” Anakil asked, confused.  
“By the way, I haven’t seen a single animal yet.”

“They are around, trust me. And a small band of Southrons cannot prevent me  
from looking for food.” Anborn grinned. “I have been in Ithilien far too  
long, I fear, I always forget to be scared.”

“I am not scared,” Anakil said quickly. “But...”

“Be quiet and keep your eyes open, troublemaker.” Anborn patted the boy on  
the back and moved forward again, slower this time, his hand at the hilt of  
his sword.

Anakil stayed close behind, scanning the undergrowth for movement that had  
not been caused by the wind. He saw some rabbit excrement and tapped  
Anborn’s shoulder. The man stopped and turned around. Anakil pointed at the  
small dark turds. The Ranger smiled and nodded and reached for his bow.  
Anakil readied his short bow as well.

They entered a small clearing between the trees, and in the middle, sitting  
lazily in the grass, there were three big rabbits, resting in the heat of  
the day. Anakil reached for an arrow. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw  
that Anborn had already readied his bow and had dropped to one knee. The  
Ranger’s arrow shot through the air and embedded itself into the neck of  
one of the rabbits. The animal dropped into the grass without a sound.

Anakil’s arrow followed more than three seconds later. It hit an animal in  
the stomach. The hit was fatal, but the rabbit squeaked and succeeded in  
jumping a few feet before falling down, its long legs still twitching.

The third animal escaped before Anborn could send a second arrow on its  
way.

“I am sorry,” Anakil said.

“That shot wasn’t too bad,” Anborn assured him. “I didn’t expect to get  
more than two of three. These little buggers are fast.”

Anakil shouldered his bow and moved towards the rabbit he had shot.

Suddenly Anborn’s hand grabbed his shoulder. The Ranger forcefully pulled  
him back and shoved him aside towards the trees at the edge of the  
clearing. “Hide!” he hissed. “Climb one of the trees! Stay hidden until I  
return.”

“What...?” Anakil started, confused.

“Don’t ask!” Anborn pushed him away with both hands. “Move!”

Anakil stumbled and almost fell face first into the grass. He braced his  
fall with his hands and one knee and jumped to his feet again, a curse on  
his lips. He could not see the arrow heading towards Anborn, but he could  
hear it cutting through the hot air and embedding itself in a tree  
somewhere behind the Ranger.

“Hide!” Anborn hissed again. “Don’t try to die a hero’s death.”

Anakil did not need further encouragement. He dropped to his hands and  
knees and crawled to the nearest tree with low hanging branches. He took a  
look around and caught a glimpse of Anborn, who disappeared into the  
shadows of the undergrowth. An arrow followed the Ranger but missed his  
back by a few inches. He could not see where the arrow had come from.

He scrambled to his feet, jumped up to get hold of one of the low branches  
and quickly disappeared into the tree’s thick roof of leaves.

The boy climbed the big tree until the branches above him did not look  
strong enough to hold him any more. He sat down next to the broad trunk and  
tried to control his breathing. His body was sweaty from the fast walk in  
the burning sun. He started to tremble with cold and more than a little  
fear. His hand crept to the hilt of his sword, while he clung to the tree  
with his left arm. He could hear movement below his tree and prayed that  
nobody had seen his climb up.

There were five men, as Anborn had guessed. Their black hair was long,  
their scarlet robes visible below their shining mail and breastplates.  
Three of them were armed with big bows, the others with long spears, and  
all of them carried broad swords. There was no sign of Anborn. The boy  
prayed that the men were occupied with finding Anborn and would not come up  
with the idea of looking up and searching the trees. He was well hidden  
behind the green leaves from the middle of the clearing where the rabbits  
lay, but if one of the men came close enough while looking up, he would  
notice the boy. He could imagine what these men would do to him and Anborn,  
should one of them be caught. He tried to push the images away.

The men ignored the dead rabbits in the middle of the clearing and hurried  
into the underbrush where Anborn had disappeared from view. Anakil released  
the breath he had been holding and squinted against the bright light of the  
sun. He did not dare to shield his eyes with his hand, for the movement  
would stir the branches of the tree more violently than the light breeze  
would do.

For a few seconds he closed his eyes, tired of staring into the blinding  
light of the sun. When he opened them again, he saw the metal tip of a  
sword reflecting one of the bright rays. The gleaming light was only  
visible for the fraction of a second, but it was long enough to get his  
attention. He peered closely in the direction the reflection had come from,  
and suddenly he saw movement in the underbrush. He recognized Anborn’s  
green and brown coat; the Ranger was returning to the clearing.

Suddenly, he understood. He readied his bow, not caring that he stirred the  
tree’s leaves with the swift movement. He did not know if Anborn had seen  
him, or if one of the five men that had entered the clearing in close  
pursuit of the Ranger had noticed that the man they were following had a  
companion.

Anborn turned around, facing the men, not running away from the fight any  
longer, his long sword ready in his hand.

Anakil aimed his first arrow at the bowman closest to the Ranger, and the  
arrow embedded itself in the man’s forehead, killing him before he could  
utter a cry of pain. Pleased with his shot, Anakil aimed at a second  
bowman, but his aim was too low, hitting the man in the hollow between neck  
and shoulder. It was a fatal wound, but it left time for an anguished cry  
of warning and a confused gaze to the tree where the arrow had come from.

The piercing sound echoed in the thick forest, mingling with the clanging  
of sword against sword. Anborn was outnumbered three to one, but he fought  
cleverly, moving about without endangering himself more than necessary.

Anakil fired a third arrow at the third bowman, but he missed the fast  
moving target. His small black arrow embedded itself in the ground close to  
the attacker. The man raised his head, startled, then he uttered a furious  
cry. He caught a glimpse of Anakil’s next arrow flying out between the  
leaves of the tree, missing his fighting comrade.

Quickly he stepped back from the fight with Anborn, loaded an arrow into  
his long bow and aimed at the top of the tree.

Anakil did not see the arrow coming towards him, for he was aiming at one  
of the two fighting men. He just felt something hit his right arm, like the  
punch of a branch he could not avoid while riding through a thick forest.  
There was no pain, just a terrible feeling of weakness. The impact made  
him sway back and forth. The bow slipped out of his hand; he did not have  
the strength to grip it any more. Slowly, he lost his balance and fell of  
the high branch, crashing to the ground near the trunk of the tree.

 

 

Anakil opened his eyes and was surprised that there was no pain at all. He  
lay on his back beneath the tree he had fallen from, and he could see an  
arrow protruding from his arm.

A face entered his field of vision, and he was relieved beyond words to see  
Anborn’s grim features. The Ranger had survived the battle and was tending  
to his injured arm. “You awake again, troublemaker?” There was no anger in  
Anborn’s voice.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

“Sorry for what?” Anborn pulled the arrow out of his arm with one forceful  
movement, and Anakil grunted in sudden pain. “You know how to wield that  
little bow of yours quite well.”

“I missed two out of four.” Anakil was sure the Ranger had waited to pull  
out the arrow until he was conscious again to punish him for his stupidity.

“But you hit two of the most dangerous ones, those with bows. I could  
handle the spears and swords and a single bowman.” The Ranger carefully  
examined the wound in Anakil’s arm and grunted. “You got lucky,  
troublemaker, it’s only a minor flesh wound. How’s your head? You were  
knocked out for quite a while.”

“It’s just a headache. I’m sorry I fell off the tree.”

“Things happen,” Anborn shrugged and bandaged Anakil’s arm with a piece of  
cloth. “The arrow did not hit the bone. The healer will have to apply some  
stitches, but you will be able to use that arm again in a few days.”

“The Southrons?” Anakil asked and winced as Anborn pulled the bandage even  
tighter to stop the bleeding.

“Two for you, three for me,” Anborn answered. “I searched them while you  
were napping here. Must have been spies.”

“I am sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. No harm done. Get up.” The Ranger pulled the boy to his  
feet with both hands.

Anakil’s head felt as if it would explode for a moment, but the pain passed  
quickly. He carefully moved every limb and discovered that he had some  
scratches and maybe pulled some muscles, but luckily no bones had been  
broken by his fall from the tree.

Anborn gave him a questioning gaze.

Anakil forced a smile on his lips. “I’m okay. A little scratch here and  
there from the impact, but no serious harm done. Ready to hunt again.”

“The hunt is over. Two rabbits and a scouting party of Southrons, that is  
more than I had hoped to find.”

Anakil risked a glance at the dead bodies of the Southrons. Anborn had laid  
them next to one another at the rim of the clearing and had covered them  
with a few dead branches. The boy felt sickness well up in his stomach, and  
he quickly averted his gaze. These dead bodies were not Orcs, they had been  
living and breathing men. The boy had never killed a man before. He did not  
want to get really sick again.

Anborn put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You do not have to look if you do  
not want to,” he said. “I am afraid I have grown used to killing, the sight  
does not bother me at all.”

“I am sorry,” Anakil said again.

“Don’t be, troublemaker.” Anborn’s voice was softer than Anakil had thought  
possible.

The Ranger shouldered the two dead rabbits and motioned Anakil to lead. The  
boy walked slowly and carefully at first, but the slight dizziness passed.  
They strode back into the west, away from the dead Southrons and the  
mountains that framed the land whose name nobody ever spoke aloud.

The pain in his right arm was bad but bearable. For a moment Anakil felt  
like the warrior he had always wanted to be. He felt like whistling a happy  
tune, until he remembered that he did not belong here. He was not a Ranger  
of Ithilien, he was not a warrior, he was not even a real messenger. He was  
an errand runner and horse boy that had left his post and had stolen a  
shirt and a horse.

He pulled the injured arm close to his body to ease the pain. Anborn’s  
bandage was very tight, he could not feel his fingers any more. His  
thoughts strayed to the Captain, who had said that he wanted to talk to him  
today about his punishment.

He had saved Beldil’s life, but otherwise he had caused a lot of trouble.

There was nothing else he could bring up to plead for a mild sentence.

His horse had almost entered the secret cave.

He had not been able to kill a rabbit without a sound, and in the process  
he had not only endangered himself but Anborn as well.

He had fallen off a tree and taken an arrow.

The Captain had appeared to be a fair and just man, but the boy knew he  
would not get away lightly. The Captain was the commanding officer of  
Ithilien, his word was the law east of the Anduin.

Suddenly he feared the return to the safety of the cave.


	6. The Wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some  
fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the  
errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of  
Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out  
and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

VI

Anakil wanted to just cut off the arm and be done with it. The stitches the  
healer had applied to the wound at his right upper arm itched and burned.  
He squeezed the fingers of his left hand into a tight fist to prevent  
himself from scratching. His right arm rested in a white sling close to his  
body, and he sat with his back against the cold wall, trying not to wince  
as the healer cleaned the many scratches from the fall off the tree.

He felt rather ridiculous, sitting in the dim light in his underwear. Every  
Ranger that laid his eyes on him stifled a chuckle or grinned openly. If  
granted a wish, the boy would choose to become a mouse and hide in a hole  
in the wall right now.

“Do not move!” the healer commanded sharply, as Anakil instinctively  
flinched from the touch of the burning, bad smelling ointment the healer  
rubbed with vigour into the scratch on the boy’s right knee. “You do not  
want to risk an infection, do you?”

“I’m sorry.” Anakil was sure he had uttered these words more often today  
than in the last three years - at least.

“You were very lucky, you know? Anborn told me you fell more then ten feet.  
Most people do not get up and walk after a fall like that.”

“I do not feel lucky right now.”

The healer put the bad smelling ointment away, and Anakil sighed in relief.  
“May I get dressed now?” he asked.

“You may,” the healer said. “But I would strongly recommend waiting until  
the smell has diminished a little. Otherwise it will cling to your clothes  
for days.”

Anakil grunted and reached for a blanket to cover his bare chest and legs.

The healer smiled. “Wise decision, young friend. You would lose all friends  
you might have made during your stay here, smelling like a walking bowl of  
medicine. Take it easy for the rest of the day; you have a bump the size of  
an egg at the back of your head.”

“Thank you!” Anakil said softly. Suddenly he felt very small and very  
lonely. The healer was talking about friends, but the boy realized that he  
had not been very successful in blending in with the Rangers and making  
friends.

“I have patched up worse accidents than yours, young friend. Don’t blame  
yourself too much. Things happen. You will be fine in a few days.” The man  
put a soothing hand on the boy’s uninjured arm and stooped to pick up the  
bowl with the ointment. “Excuse me for a moment; I have to get this out of  
the cave before Anborn has a talk with me about his sensitive nostrils.” He  
grinned and disappeared into the twilight of the cave.

“Things happen,” Anakil whispered to himself. “Why do things always happen  
to me?” His clenched fist unraveled itself with a mind of its own and  
moved to the arm in the sling to scratch the stitches.

“Don’t even think about it!”

Startled, Anakil hid his hand below the blanket and stared down at Beldil,  
who had been sleeping on the mattress next to him mere moments ago.

“If you even touch his stitches, he will kill you, very slowly and  
painfully. He is a healer, believe me, he knows what hurts most.”

“How long have you been awake?” Anakil asked, moving his restless left hand  
to rub his face.

“Long enough.” Beldil’s small smile widened into a broad grin. “I did not  
want to interrupt him and remind him that he hasn’t treated my wound yet. I  
can live without the smell for a little longer, and besides, I feel quite  
fine.”

“Glad to hear that.” Anakil hid his hand below the blanket again.

“I have to admit I am not so glad about some news I heard about you.”  
Beldil’s smile was replaced by an illegible frown.

“I am sorry. I did not intend to dishonour the duties of messengers. I  
just... jumped at an opportunity...rather thoughtlessly.”

“I am glad you did what you did, otherwise there is a good chance I would  
be dead by now.” Beldil sat up slowly and rested his back against the wall  
next to the boy. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday? I would have talked to  
the Captain and maybe convinced him to just let you go.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You deserve it. It is as simple as that.”

Anakil leaned back his head and winced as his bump came in close contact  
with the cold, rough stone. “I thought about running away while walking  
home from the hunt today,” he confessed. “I thought about grabbing my horse  
and just galloping away. Maybe the guards wouldn’t have shot me. Maybe they  
would have. I do not know. But where can I go? I cannot go back to  
Osgiliath, I cannot stay in Ithilien, and I cannot go home. I fear I have  
to accept whatever the Captain decides to do with me. That seems to be the  
right thing to do.”

“The Captain is a fair judge,” Beldil said. “And I will speak for you,  
should he be willing to hear me. Messengers have to stick together, after  
all.”

“I am not a messenger,” Anakil said. “Not a real one.”

“You delivered a message, and you did well. As far as I am concerned, you  
are a messenger, until the Captain decides otherwise.”

Anakil took Beldil’s good hand and squeezed it tightly. “Thank you,” he  
whispered. Maybe he had made one friend after all.

 

 

The patrols of the Rangers returned late in the afternoon. All men in  
fighting condition had been out in the woods, save the few who were needed  
to guard the cave and care for the wounded. The cave quickly filled with  
hungry and tired men. But despite their fatigue and weariness, the men did  
not sit down and rest but moved about, knowing what to do and where they  
were needed most in the operation of a camp the size of Henneth Annûn. Some  
set up benches for dinner, other opened storage barrels, some cleaned their  
dirty hands and green painted faces, others polished swords and mended  
broken arrows without getting in each other’s way and without any sign of  
haste.

The wounded were brought in with the same calm order in which all other  
business was taken care of. The conversation between the healer and the  
Rangers was short and poignant. Anakil understood that there had been a  
fight in the woods; a fight with a company of Southrons far larger than the  
scouting party he and Anborn had stumbled across during their hunt.

One man was dead. The Rangers had been able to recover the body, but Anakil  
did not see anyone carrying a corpse into the cave. The boy did not know  
how Rangers mourned and buried their dead, but he knew he was not in the  
position to ask one of the men about such a personal matter. He probably  
would not have hesitated to ask Beldil, but the messenger was asleep, and  
he did not want to disturb the wounded man.

Four men had been severely wounded in the fight. Anakil left his mattress  
next to Beldil to give the healer more space to work and move about the  
area. The boy sat down at the wall on the opposite side of the cave,  
playing with the white sling, twisting parts of it around the fingers of  
his left hand.

The Rangers tended to those who had sustained minor cuts and bruises, and  
Anakil realized the men were very capable of performing those duties. The  
boy had worked with the healers of Osgiliath more then once, he knew what  
to do and how to assist, but his injured arm prevented him from offering  
his help.

Anakil returned to his mattress at the wall next to Beldil as soon as all  
the wounded had been taken care of. The healer stepped back to clean his  
bloody hands in a bowl of fresh water one of his fellow Rangers had brought  
him. The sun started to set behind the veil of the waterfall, casting the  
world outside of Henneth Annûn’s cave into a bloody and golden light, and  
the Rangers of Ithilien stood in silence, facing west, before they sat down  
to have dinner.

Anakil stood silent as well, even though he did not dare to sit down at the  
benches with the healthy men. The healer was grateful that he used his good  
arm to help the recovering men like Beldil to sit up and eat, despite the  
fact that he himself did not find much time to stuff a piece of bread or  
some cheese into his mouth. The boy did not mind skimping his own dinner;  
it felt good to be of some use.

He had not seen Anborn since the Ranger had delivered him into the healer’s  
care when returning from their ill-fated hunt. Therefore he was startled as  
the tall man suddenly appeared next to him, both hands hidden behind his  
back.

“Good evening, Anborn,” the boy croaked, unable to hide his discomfort in  
the presence of this particular Ranger. He was sure all the men knew by now  
what had happened to him, but Anborn had seen it, and that was definitely  
worse.

“Good evening, troublemaker,” Anborn replied gravely. “I hope you did not  
even think of getting into trouble for the rest of the day?”

“I didn’t.” Anakil avoided meeting the Ranger’s gaze. He pretended to cover  
his unease by checking on Beldil, who was fast asleep, but he was sure he  
could not fool the experienced man.

“You know, I have been observing you for quite some time now.” Anborn  
pointed to a mattress in an extremely dark area of the cave.

“I am sorry for what happened on the hunt,” Anakil started. He finally  
looked up to meet the Ranger’s dark eyes. “I really tried to be useful â€“  
and to stay out of trouble.”

Anborn silenced him with a piercing stare. “I know,” he said.

Then a small smile crept onto his face. He moved his hands from behind his  
back and showed the boy a small plate filled with freshly cooked meat.  
“Fresh meat is rare among us Rangers and normally reserved for those  
needing it most, but I saved a few bites for you. It’s the rabbit you shot.  
I cooked it myself; I hope it tastes as good as it looks.” He smelled at  
the plate and licked his lips. “I can imagine you are still hungry, judging  
by the few bites you had for dinner.”

Anakil stared first at the meat, than at Anborn’s smiling face, unable to  
come up with a reply.

Anborn started to chuckle and placed the plate in Anakil’s hands. “Say  
thank you, troublemaker.”

“Thank you â€“ Anborn,” the boy said obediently.

“My pleasure. Now eat and don’t tell the Captain anything about fresh  
rabbits when you see him later this evening.” Anborn twinkled and  
disappeared into the shadows.

“Thank you, Anborn,” Anakil said to the Ranger’s retreating figure as he  
shifted his back into a more comfortable position against the hard rocky  
wall, his nose close to the delicious smelling plate in his hands.

“I smell rabbit,” Beldil’s voice stated, and the messenger opened one eye  
to peer at the plate in Anakil’s lap. “Fresh rabbit. Tasty rabbit.  
Delicious rabbit. Rabbit cooked by the great Anborn himself.”

“You just had dinner,” Anakil said, trying to cover the plate with one  
hand. “You should be asleep. You seemed to be asleep mere moments ago.”

“Things are not always as they seem to be. I can’t sleep.” Beldil’s face  
creased into a broad grin. “But one bite of fresh rabbit, and I will be  
sleeping all night,” the messenger promised. “Or better, make it two bites,  
just to be sure.”

Anakil smiled, moved his hands away and placed the plate between their  
mattresses to share his meal with his only friend. Just to be sure the  
wounded man got a good night’s sleep...

 

 

The rabbit was delicious, and Anakil allowed himself a cup of wine without  
water. His stomach filled and his mood lightened by the wine, he settled  
down on his mattress and propped his head on one hand to have a better look  
at Beldil next to him. “Would you mind me asking something, before we both  
go to sleep?”

“Go ahead.” Beldil had his eyes close, his injured wrist placed carefully  
on his stomach.

“The man that died today â€“ what happens to him now? I caught from  
conversations that they brought the body back to this place, but I did not  
see him being carried into the cave with the wounded.”

“Galdor.” Beldil sighed, and squeezed his eyes shut tightly to cover his  
quiet grief.

Anakil remembered the man called Galdor. He had been with Anborn when they  
had first met at night in the forest, and he had been a friend of Beldil’s.  
Briefly he wondered how Beldil had been able to get to know the name of the  
dead, being asleep for the better part of the afternoon and evening. News  
traveled fast and on invisible paths in Henneth Annûn.

“They will bury him outside in a clearing, facing west, so that he can see  
the sun set over the plains of Ithilien and Gondor, the Anduin and on clear  
days the White city and the peaks of the White Mountains,” the messenger  
said softly and slowly. “He has fought hard for this land for many years.  
He will continue to look at its beauty even though he cannot protect it  
with his sword any more. He loved this land deeply - we all do. I am sure  
he will be at peace here.”

Beldil’s voice dropped to be no more than a whisper. “He took a spear right  
into the heart. I think he was dead before his body hit the ground. Maybe,  
hopefully, there was not even pain before his last fight was over. He was a  
good fellow, a good comrade, a good man. I think I will miss him - his easy  
manner, his laughter, his bad jokes. Well, maybe not the really bad ones.”

Beldil stopped talking, and Anakil did not press any further. He watched  
the messenger for a little while, but Beldil did not open his eyes again.  
The boy curled up on his mattress, mindful of his injury, to finally get  
some sleep.

 

 

Anborn’s well known dirty boot on the left side of his chest roused him  
rather violently from a deep, dreamless slumber. He heard Beldil’s soft  
snoring beside him and stifled a yelp of surprise to not wake the sleeping  
messenger.

“The Captain would like to see you now, troublemaker,” Anborn whispered,  
tapping the tip of his boot lightly against the boy’s left shoulder.

Anakil tried to shrug off the restraining boot, as he had successfully done  
in the morning, but the pain welling up in his injured arm stopped the  
movement. He squeezed his eyes shut to hide the sudden tears.

“I am sorry.” Anborn’s boot disappeared at once, and the Ranger offered a  
hand to help the boy to his feet. “I did not want to hurt you. How is your  
arm?”

“Hurt,” Anakil hissed, ashamed of the wetness in his eyes. He ignored  
Anborn’s outstretched hand and scrambled to his feet on his own, wiping his  
face with the sleeve of his good arm.

It was quite dark in the cave. Most of the torches on the walls had been  
put out, but there was enough light to see that the curtain at the end of  
the cave was open and the Captain’s private recess empty.

“The Captain is outside,” Anborn said. “He did not return inside after  
overseeing Galdor’s funeral.” The Ranger’s mouth was pressed into a thin  
line, and Anakil realized the man, too, was grieving for the dead comrade.

The boy remembered the concerned and weary expression on the Captain’s face  
when he had been worrying about his missing Lieutenant’s company the night  
before and wondered whether, after having overseen the funeral of one of  
his men and maybe even a personal friend, the Captain might be in need for  
some peace. “Are you sure he wants to see me now, Anborn?” he asked  
hesitating.

“Absolutely sure, troublemaker. The Captain does not like unfinished  
business.”


	7. The Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some  
fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the  
errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of  
Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out  
and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

VII

The night was partly cloudy, and in the tunnel that led to the surface,  
there was no light at all. Anborn carried a small torch and strode on  
quickly, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the night, his flickering  
shadow moving alongside him, painting dark pictures on the even darker,  
rocky walls. Anakil followed close behind, anxious to stay in the small  
circle of light, careful not to trip and fall in the lasting blackness.  
Anborn might know the tunnel well enough to find his way even in complete  
darkness, but Anakil, despite his good memory, had walked this dark passage  
only three times in two days, far too seldom to memorize every small  
turning point and every bigger piece of rock on the ground.

They did not turn towards the main exit that led out into the wild, but  
followed many steps that started to their left, winding up like a turret  
stair, a path Anakil had neither noticed nor walked before.

The stairway ended, and they stepped out of the rocky darkness onto a flat  
rock, smooth surfaced but not slippery and surprisingly dry. To their right  
there was the river in its narrow bed of stone, splashing over many steps,  
then flowing down a smooth hewn channel, obviously the product of man’s  
work of long ago. Foam flecked the rushing water, glistening in the pale  
light of few stars. Dancing merrily despite its narrow enclosement, the  
water fell over the edge of the rock at their left, into a deep abyss  
yawning dangerously and black in the darkness.

A man sat there near the brink, his legs folded under his body, his  
features lit by the flickering light of a small lamp partly hidden below  
his cloak to keep the light from being visible from a greater distance.

“Good luck, troublemaker!” Anborn slapped Anakil’s shoulder and stepped  
back to the stairway that led down to the tunnel.

Thousands of questions concerning the Captain were in Anakil’s mind, had  
been there right away since they had entered the tunnel, but it was too  
late now. Anborn’s footsteps swiftly faded away, and the boy did not want  
to shout after him. For a moment he gazed into the opening where Anborn’s  
flickering torchlight had disappeared.

Then he reluctantly stepped forward towards the dark figure next to the  
lamp.

It was the Captain, sitting cross-legged on the smooth rock, an open book  
on his knees. The flickering light of the lamp made it difficult to read  
the small letters on well-worn pages, but the Captain squinted in the  
darkness and seemed to be lost in deep concentration, his dark hair and  
cloak stirring in the cool breeze.

Anakil stopped beside him and was glad he had never been afraid of heights.  
He was standing at the edge of the waterfall that veiled the entrance of  
the cave. From his present position the waters of the small river poured  
down at least 75 feet, splashing white and foaming into a rocky basin,  
dancing and swirling about, before they found a narrow outlet and escaped  
into calmer regions.

Anakil tore his gaze away from the abyss opening before his feet und  
cleared his throat to get the Captain’s attention. “My lord?”

Captain Faramir slowly raised his head and smiled up at the boy. “Good  
evening, Anakil. How is your arm?”

Anakil gazed down at his right arm in the white sling. The wound was still  
itching and burning. “It’s nothing, my lord. It only required a few  
stitches.”

Captain Faramir blew out the small lamp and shut his book. “Sit with me for  
a while, young friend.”

Anakil obediently sat down next to the tall man and slung his good arm  
around his up-drawn knees. “I did not mean to disturb you, my lord. I was  
brought here to hear my...” He paused to find the right word. “...punishment  
...sentence,” he finished. He did not like the sound of either word.

The Captain chuckled softly and rubbed both eyes with one hand. “What do  
you expect me to do?”

“I honestly don’t know, my lord.” Anakil did not meet the other’s  
questioning gaze. “I expect everything and nothing, I suppose. I am sure  
Anborn told you of all the trouble I caused today?”

The Captain chuckled again. One of his hands came to rest on the book at  
his side. “Anborn told me you shot a rabbit, killed two Southrons that were  
pursuing him and took an arrow in the fight. He also told me you are an  
able bowman, for a boy without appropriate training. You have an excellent  
memory indeed, and you are a quick study. Your horse is an ugly beast, I  
saw that myself last night when the guards and myself struggled hard to  
keep it away from the entrance of our tunnel. Is there anything you like to  
add?”

“I am sorry for the trouble my horse caused, my lord.” Anakil stared at the  
dark band of the Anduin in the distance. “And, maybe Anborn forgot to  
mention it, I fell off the tree during the fight and knocked myself out for  
quite a long time.” His hand crept to the back of his head to touch the  
throbbing bruise. “I am sorry for that, as well.”

“Anborn did mention it,” the Captain said. “And he does not blame you. He  
has not dealt with inexperienced fighters for a long time. He simply forgot  
to test your abilities with the bow and the sword before he took you with  
him on the hunt.

“He sees the young man you are and treats you according to that obvious  
picture, but nevertheless he expected you to behave like a Ranger in the  
moment of danger. That was his mistake, not yours. You took an arrow and  
lost balance while trying to shoot from a high branch; that would have  
happened to anyone who is not used to anticipate the move of an enemy.

“You performed better than Anborn could expect you to do. I cannot and will  
not punish you for covering his back.”

“I missed two targets out of four,” Anakil confessed miserably. “And I  
didn’t hit the rabbit correctly; it squeaked and jumped before it was  
dead.”

The Captain smiled an amused smile. “An afternoon half naked in the cave,  
smelling like a bowl of medicine, is punishment enough for a squeaking  
rabbit.”

Anakil started to wonder how the Captain could possibly know anything about  
how he had spent his afternoon. He decided not to dwell on this thought for  
long; the Captain had to know everything that came to pass in his company.  
Most likely either the healer or Anborn had told him.

“As of the other deeds you have done, I have thought about them since we  
talked last night.” His fingers started to tap on the book next to him. “I  
have never heard or read anything about a horse boy, errand runner and  
barber pretending to be a messenger before. There is nothing known to me on  
which I can base my punishment.”

“I am sorry,” Anakil said. “My lord,” he added quickly.

“There has to be a first time for everything,” the Captain shrugged. His  
fingers still played with the hard cover of his book. “Do you like  
reading?”

“I used to, when I was younger, my lord” Anakil said, surprised by the  
sudden change of topic. “When I got older, I put all my efforts in riding  
and learning to fight and growing.” With a touch of dark humour he added:  
“I am still working on the growing part. With all those tasks at hand,  
reading is a waste of time.”

“Reading is never a waste of time,” the Captain corrected him mildly. “Even  
though I think my own brother would disagree with me on that matter. I am  
sure Beldil told you that the written word is a weapon as sharp and mighty  
as any sword. He is right.”

“He told me that, among many other things. Beldil is a good man, my lord.”

“I know. And you saved this good man’s life, young friend.”

Anakil was grateful that the Captain had not adopted Anborn’s nickname or  
made up a new one on his own. He liked to be called friend.

The Captain raked his hand trough his hair. “Now what shall I do with you?  
Beldil has not spoken to me, but I can imagine he would, given the chance,  
plead to just let you go. Anborn asked for a mild sentence as well. Your  
injury is weighing quite heavy on his consciousness; even though I am sure  
he did not show it openly.”

Anakil raised a surprised eyebrow. “My lord?” He would have sworn an oath  
that Anborn would prefer to dump him and his horse somewhere far away from  
the cave, bound and gagged, never to return.

“You don’t need to fear me, young friend.” The Captain smiled down at the  
small boy. “You can still call me Captain.”

“Captain,” Anakil said and bowed his head between his knees.

“You have been very honest, so I will be honest with you as well. My first  
thoughts when you confessed the circumstances that led you here were to  
send you home for a while,” the Captain said, and his smile turned into the  
stern, commanding face all officers of the realm were capable of. “You  
could use some time thinking about what would happen to Gondor’s defence if  
more soldiers took the liberty to come and go as they pleased. But you told  
me of your home, and I realized that sending you there would be a reward,  
not a punishment, despite the shame you would have to endure for a while.  
Many other boys, even some who are training to be warriors, would endure  
that with a smile, considering it a fair prize to be away from the war and  
with their families for some precious time.

“Then I thought about keeping you here among the Rangers, not as a warrior,  
for that would be a reward as well, but as an errand runner, a much needed  
assistant to the healer, and an even more needed barber.” A short smile  
touched only his eyes, as he ruffled his rough cut black hair again. “You  
would have gained and lost nothing this way, only, I imagine, Osgiliath is  
a place far more comfortable than Henneth Annûn.

“A young, small man with your extraordinary memory would some day make an  
excellent scout, given time and Anborn’s training. Scouts are desperately  
needed in Ithilien.

“But I soon realized I cannot do this either. Not because it would not be  
an appropriate punishment, but because I am not the right person to punish  
you at all.”

Anakil raised his head. “Captain?” he asked, astonishment in his voice.

“Your actions did not harm my company, therefore my punishment would be  
very mild. But the Captain of Osgiliath is the officer whose company you  
left without permission. He is the one to decide what harm resulted from  
your deeds, and how you can make up for it. You are a member of the  
Osgiliath Company, after all, and the Captain of Osgiliath is the Captain  
General of all of Gondor; therefore he is my superior officer as well as  
yours.

“You will leave for Osgiliath at sunrise, to present yourself to your  
Captain. He will decide how to punish you best.” It was too dark to be  
sure, but Anakil thought the Captain’ eyes narrowed in concern as he added:  
“I happen to have more than a passing acquaintance with the Captain General  
and will give you a message for him with a full account of your deeds and  
my thoughts on the matter. I hope he will take my recommendations into his  
considerations.”

The Captain scrutinized the boy with his piercing grey eyes. Anakil was  
unable to hold that gaze for more than a few seconds. He lowered his head  
again and wavered between relief and disappointment. He had never had any  
business with Captain Boromir of Osgiliath. He had seen him every now and  
then, walking in the distance or uttering orders to his Lieutenants, but he  
had never been close to the man. He was only a horse boy and errand runner  
after all. His duties had never led him to the Captain of the White Tower,  
son of the ruling Steward and future Steward of Gondor.

The boy realized he would have preferred to be punished by Captain Faramir.  
He did not now him well, but the Captain was held in high esteem by his  
men, and Anakil had met the Rangers as fierce and determined men who did  
not give their love and loyalty easily.

The Captain of Osgiliath was also loved and admired greatly, as military  
leader as well as future ruler of Gondor, but Anakil did not know anything  
about his bearing as a judge.

“Yes, Captain,” he whispered, realizing Captain Faramir expected a  
reaction. He did not meet the Captain’s gaze.

Slowly he turned his head to watch the rushing and twirling water in the  
smooth channel. His eyes tried to follow a single patch of foam drifting in  
the current, but he failed and lifted his gaze to the plains of Ithilien  
that stretched out far below.

The world seemed to be very quiet and peaceful. A chilling wind caused him  
to shiver slightly. The moon hid behind thick cloud patches, and few stars  
lit a thin layer of mist in the distant valley, turning it into dark  
silver. The Anduin was visible in the distance, a dark band dividing the  
darkness, seemingly close to the snowy peaks of the White Mountains that  
were visible as shadows on the horizon. A dark sign leading south towards  
Osgiliath.

“You will not go alone,” the Captain said quietly. “One of the wounded men  
who is able to go the distance will accompany you to Osgiliath. Our single  
healer will be overwhelmed if the number of wounded continues to increase.  
We shall take advantage of your horse and send at least one of the wounded  
to the south.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“A few men will escort you to the Anduin south of Cair Andros, but with  
Mablung and his company still absent I cannot spare those men to accompany  
you all the way to Osgiliath. You will follow the shoreline, for the river  
is well guarded and no enemies have dared to approach the eastern shore for  
a long time. You will ride hard and hopefully you will reach Osgiliath or  
meet one of the patrols before nightfall. Both you and your companion are  
injured and cannot defend yourself properly, should you be attacked, but I  
am willing to take that risk to get you and another injured man to safety.”

“I would stay until Mablung and his company returns,” Anakil offered and  
raised his head to see the Captain’s reaction. “To your conditions,  
Captain.”

“I bet you would.” The Captain laughed quietly. “But you can’t. Henneth  
Annûn is no refuge for boys that are bored of their duties. You cannot  
escape punishment or even delay it.”

“I didn’t mean to imply...” Anakil started.

The Captain silenced him with a wave of his hand. “I know.” The light of  
the few stars cast dark shadows over his grey eyes, and for a moment his  
young and stern face appeared almost sad. “I have to send word to Galdor’s  
family about his death. I will ask you to carry the message back to  
Osgiliath.”

“Of course, Captain.” Anakil did not know what to say. He could not imagine  
what exactly he had done to gain the Captain’s trust.

The Captain picked up his book and scrambled to his feet, carefully  
stretching his long limbs. “I have some letters to write, and you should  
get a good night’s sleep. You have a long and exhausting day ahead of you.”  
He extended his hand and carefully pulled the boy to his feet, before  
stooping to pick up the lamp. “Let’s call it a night.”

“Yes, Captain.” The boy wondered shortly if the Captain ever slept at all.

Anakil followed the Ranger over the rock and down the stairs that led down  
into the tunnel. The Captain lit the lamp again, but the flickering light  
was barely enough to light the way. The tall form of the Captain almost  
vanished in dark shadows.

“Don’t fear the Captain General too much, Anakil,” the Captain said as they  
reached the bottom of the stairs and followed the tunnel back to the cave.  
“He will neither execute nor eat you. That rabbit wasn’t your last decent  
meal.” He did not turn around to show his face, and his voice was  
unreadable.


	8. The Sentence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some  
fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the  
errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of  
Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out  
and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

VIII

Anakil barely slept at all that night. He lay on his back, his good arm  
folded under his head, staring at the dark, rocky ceiling above. He could  
hear Beldil’s slow breathing next to him and the occasional snoring of the  
Rangers in the cave. His wound itched as well as some other parts of his  
body, reminding him that he had not changed his clothing for more than  
three days now.

He tried to remember every fact and every rumour he had ever heard about  
the Captain General and realized he did not know many details about the  
man. He was the eldest son of the Steward, heir to the Stewardship, the  
greatest warriors and Captain in all of Gondor, if he could believe the  
rumours circling among the men. Anakil had never taken much interest in  
rumours. The affairs of the White City did neither reached, nor, if they  
did, captured the interest of the people that lived far outside its walls.  
They joined the army because of their sense of duty and their love for  
their land, they did not care much about the details of politics and war.  
The farmers of the Anduin were busy enough with their own hard lives.

Anakil had seen the White City only twice in his life, and the crowded  
streets had filled his mind with a sense of dread. The Captain General,  
heir of this city as well as of all of Gondor, was to him a person as  
distant as the Steward himself, admired because of his position, a name  
without a face, despite the fact that he had been under his command for  
nine months.

The other boys at Osgiliath would always talk about Captain Boromir,  
despite the fact that they, like Anakil, had never had business with him.  
But errand boys were moving around the garrison all day, and the soldiers  
were so used to the sight of them they simply did not notice them any more.

Therefore the errand boys were the main distributors of gossip and rumours.  
They caught a few sentences here, a few comments there, made up something  
to relate what they had heard, and a new rumour was born. Anakil had never  
liked spreading rumours, and he had seldom paid attention when the other  
boys had been bragging about with their knowledge at night time in the  
cramped quarters. Now he wished he had paid at least some attention to  
their stories.

He remembered that stories about Captain Boromir had been the other boy’s  
favourites. Even Anakil knew the Captain General was the strong arm of the  
Steward in these hard times. It was said that he had never lost a fight,  
had never been injured, had always been victorious even if the odds had  
been against him. All the boys wanted to be as brave as Captain Boromir  
when it was their time to enter warrior’s training.

When he had been new to the company, Anakil had wanted to be like the  
Captain as well. But he had soon realized the other boys laughed at him  
when he uttered those wishes, calling him Captain of the Dwarfs when they  
thought him asleep. He had stopped talking about his dreams a long time  
ago, and he had stopped thinking about being a great warrior like Captain  
Boromir as well. He would be happy to be just a normal warrior at all.

He tried to remember a story about how the Captain had bested enemies  
overpowering his company, how he treated those close to him and what kind  
of man might be hidden behind the rumours and stories, and he did not come  
up with a single piece of information. The boys had never talked about  
those things, they did not care if the Captain had a wife or friends in the  
garrison, all they were interested in were stories of battle and glory.

There was only one thing Anakil knew about Captain Boromir’s personal life.  
It was known even at the shores of the Anduin that the Steward had two  
sons, but the boy did not know anything about that second son. He was not  
sure the second son was in the army as well. The boys had never talked  
about him, and he had never listened closely to the soldiers’ gossip when  
running an errand. He even did not remember the name of this second son,  
even though he was sure one of the other boys had mentioned him some time.  
His memory was good, but sometimes it was not good enough. Most probably  
the second son was in the White City at his father’s side, while the heir  
and Captain General commanded the army. He decided knowing the Captain had  
a younger brother was a quite useless piece of information.

Anakil did not know if he wanted to come face to face with the man behind  
the title. Most of the people of the Anduin had never seen one of the  
Stewards and their chief advisors, and they considered themselves fortunate  
to be too far away to lie under the looming shadow of the city.

The Rangers of Ithilien had been very friendly, but they were careful  
people who would never jeopardize their Captains’ safety by volunteering  
useful information about the men. Anakil had known nothing about Captain  
Faramir, even less than he knew about Captain Boromir, but nevertheless he  
would have gladly accepted any punishment Captain Faramir had bestowed on  
him, for Captain Faramir seemed to be more like the people of the Anduin,  
fighting hard because he had to, but losing neither his gentleness nor his  
sense for beauty in the process. But Captain Faramir was not the Steward’s  
heir after all.

 

 

Shortly prior to dawn the healer gently shook the boy’s shoulder to check  
his wound and declare him fit enough for travel. Anakil rubbed his hand  
over his face and drew his cloak tightly about his body to ward off the  
morning chill. He had some breakfast together with the healer and was  
thereafter led out of the cave by a Ranger he did not know. Most of the men  
were deep asleep, and they had to be careful not to trip over one of the  
sleeping forms on the ground.

It was still dark outside, only a dim flicker of brightness in the east  
announced the raising sun. Near the entrance to the cave, Anborn stepped  
out from behind a tree and greeted the boy with a lopsided smile. “Good  
morning, troublemaker.”

Anakil remembered what the Captain had told him about the Ranger and  
hesitatingly returned the smile. “Good morning, Anborn.”

“I will be back with Kallin shortly, it would be nice if you had the horse  
ready then.” The boy’s guide waved goodbye and stepped back into the  
tunnel.

Anborn put two fingers between his lips and produced a low whistling sound.  
The second Ranger that had been with Anborn when they had met in the woods  
stepped out of the shadows, leading Anakil’s horse by the bridle. The big  
horse snorted in greeting, and tried to reach its young master.

“It’s okay, Darung,” Anborn said. “He will not try to enter the tunnel  
again.”

Darung let go of the bridle. The brown horse trotted to Anakil’s side and  
carefully rubbed its big head against the boy’s shoulder. Anakil reached up  
to caress the animal’s nose and whispered a few words into the animal’s  
attentive ears.

“Are you sure you can control him with one arm?” Anborn asked.

“I can control him even without both arms.” Anakil leaned his head against  
the horse’s strong neck and smiled, sure of his answer for once. “My father  
sold him to the army not long ago, we grew up on his farm together,” he  
added by way of explanation.

Anborn nodded. “Darung and I will take you to the Anduin. Your legs are  
strong and healthy, you will walk with us until we reach the river. Your  
horse is strong, but we don’t want to exhaust it more than necessary.”

The Ranger that had accompanied Anakil through the tunnel reappeared in the  
dim light of the beginning day, supporting a limping man into the open.

“Good morning, everyone,” Beldil said, forcing a smile on his scratched  
face. “Kallin was feverish again in the night, so the healer decided is has  
to be me and you and this ugly beast again. I am the only one without fever  
who managed to take all arrows and sword strikes to the limbs, not to the  
torso.”

Anakil bid the stallion to lay down, and Beldil was placed on the broad  
horseback. The boy was glad that it was Beldil who accompanied him to  
Osgiliath, he did not know anything about the Ranger called Kallin. Beldil  
was strong enough to support himself without help. Anakil guided the horse  
on loosely dangling reins, while Anborn led the company of four to the  
southwest with Darung covering their rear.

The morning air was cool, and they moved at a fast pace next to the small  
river, until the thick underbrush of Ithilien’s woods slowed them down a  
little. The morning breeze stirred the roof of branches far above, causing  
some leaves to silently tumble down onto the earth. The rising sun cast the  
land into strange patterns of light and shadow, and sometimes they caught a  
glance of the waters of the Anduin, sparkling merrily beyond the plains  
that stretched out before them.

But there was still the eerie quiet Anakil had noticed when he had passed  
through this forest three days ago. They did not talk, and the occasional  
snorting of the horse cut the heavy silence like a knife.

It had only been four days since he had left Osgiliath, but to Anakil it  
seemed as if half a lifetime had passed. Four days ago he had been running  
an errand for Lieutenant Darin, one of many errands the Lieutenant gave to  
him when he had finished cleaning the stables, and when the healers did not  
need his help. Four days since he had stumbled about Lieutenant Mablung and  
had decided, in a fit of insanity, to take the message, steal a horse and a  
shirt and ride away to the northeast.

Lieutenant Darin would have realized he was missing by nightfall. The  
Lieutenant always checked on his boys after dinner. Maybe someone would  
have missed him earlier, but Anakil did not think that was likely. Nobody  
missed a small horse boy, except Lieutenant Darin nobody even knew the  
boys’ names. There were just too many of them, small, lanky boys with black  
hair and dirty hands.

Lieutenant Darin would have been anxious at first about what might have  
happened to him. As soon as the Lieutenant had found out what he had done,  
the officer would have been furious. The other boys would have been furious  
as well, for they would have had to split his duties between themselves  
until a replacement could be found. Nobody liked cleaning the stables. Most  
probably they would still think he had deserted his post to run away.  
Anakil had heard stories about what deserters had to expect, should they be  
caught, and he did not like those stories at all. Captain Faramir had  
assured him that he would not be executed, and he desperately wanted to  
believe him.

 

 

The sun had risen to its peak when they reached the shore of the river. The  
warm air was almost visible now above the moving cold water.

Beldil slowly lowered himself to the ground, refusing the help of his  
comrades. Anakil freed the horse of the reins and allowed it to drink water  
from the river. Anborn and Darung talked to Beldil, while the boy followed  
his horse, plunged his head into the water and splashed his neck and arms.

“Troublemaker!” Anborn called.

Anakil raised his head and slicked back his wet hair from his face with  
both hands.

“There is no time for a long rest,” Anborn said. “Get your horse over here.  
You will have the water right by your side the whole day. But I would  
advise you to stop only for a drink, for the way is long.”

Anakil nodded. “Come on, old boy,” he said, and the horse obediently  
stepped out of the shallow water behind its dripping master.

The boy stooped to examine all four wet hooves of the animal and cleaned  
his hand in the water afterwards. “We are ready to go,” he said and  
fastened the reins at the bridle again.

Anborn put his right arm around the boy’s narrow shoulders and led him a  
few steps away, while Darung assisted Beldil to mount the horse again.  
“Should anything happen to you in the first few hours, turn back to the  
north and try to reach either Henneth Annûn or Cair Andros,” he said. “You  
are both injured, so don’t even think about engaging yourself in a fight.  
Beldil is in pain, but he will not complain until the pain becomes  
unbearable. He does not want to be a burden. Try to make him as comfortable  
as possible, but don’t forget that you have to press hard to reach your  
destination before nightfall. And remember to stay close to the river. The  
Captain and myself are not happy that we have to let you go alone, but  
Darung and myself are desperately needed here.”

“I understand,” Anakil said. “We will be fine.”

“Should Mablung and his company be still at Osgiliath when you get there,  
tell them to give a short account of your safe arrival.”

“I promise I will send word.”

Anborn reached into his pocket and produced three sealed letters. “The  
Captain trusts these messages in your hands, for even though you are not a  
real messenger, you are the stronger one right now. Deliver Beldil to the  
healers of Osgiliath when you arrive, then present yourself and your  
messages to the Captain General.”

Anakil took the messages and put them into his own pocket. “I will not  
disappoint the Captain,” he said and hoped with all his heart that he could  
live up to this promise. “Tell him I give my regards â€“ and my thanks.”

“I will. Stay out of trouble for once.” Anborn squeezed the Anakil’s good  
shoulder in a gesture close to a rough but affectionate hug and tousled the  
boy’s wet hair. “Take care of both of you. You are a good lad,  
troublemaker!”

Anakil did not know what to say, and he did not have the time to think  
about an answer. Anborn steered him back to Darung and Beldil. Beldil had  
already mounted the horse, and Anakil swung himself behind him on the broad  
horseback. He carefully moved his injured arm out of the white sling and  
put it around Beldil’s waist. Then he grabbed the reins with the other hand  
and touched his heels to the horse’s flanks to get the animal’s attention.

Anborn reached up to carefully grab Beldil’s left arm, squeezing the man’s  
forearm above the broken wrist. “Safe journey,” he said.

Darung squeezed Beldil’s arm as well, and to Anakil’s surprise the Ranger  
patted his thigh. “Don’t fear the Captain General too much. Safe journey,  
troublemaker,” he said, and Anakil got the impression that he would never  
get rid of this nickname among the Ithilien Rangers.

“Ready?” the boy asked the messenger.

“Ready!” Beldil replied.

Anakil shrugged his shoulders to adjust his bow and a small pack with food  
on his back and urged the horse into a fast walk, leaving the two Ithilien  
Rangers behind.

 

 

They rode in silence for many hours.

Beldil tried not to rely on the slender arms that encircled his waist. The  
boy’s right arm was pressed tightly against his lower stomach, but the  
messenger was sure that was more to keep the injured arm as motionless as  
possible than to support his weight. The warmth of the small body at his  
back and the animal between his knees were soothing, but they did not help  
much in ignoring the pain in his injured limbs and the beginning of a  
headache.

The sun burned merciless onto the valley of the river. Beldil was glad the  
boy was at his back and could not see his clenched teeth.

The horse moved along the riverbank, following every turn of the flowing  
water at a fast walk and without any sign of exhaustion or protest. The  
strong animal did not mind the heavy burden on its broad back.

“Would you mind if we tried a faster pace?” the boy suddenly asked. “It’s  
already way past noon, and we still have a great distance to cover.” The  
hoarse voice of the boy was close to the messenger’s ear.

“I am not sure I can hold myself steady with only one good leg,” Beldil  
confessed.

“I have two good legs and one good arm, and this old boy does not need my  
guidance on the reins. We can communicate through my legs and voice. I can  
steady you with my good arm.” The boy grabbed the reins at the ends and  
tightened his left arm around Beldil’s waist. “It is worth a try. We can  
stop at once if you do not feel comfortable.”

“Agreed,” Beldil said. The prospect of speeding up the journey was  
tempting.

The boy steered the animal into the shallow water of the river and uttered  
a short command. The horse immediately started a slow gallop. Water  
splashed from under its heavy hooves, wetting the riders’ legs and arms.  
The cool drops were very welcome in the heat of the day.

Beldil soon realized it was easy to move with the horse’s fluid motions.  
Therefore it was no exhausting effort to keep his balance. His head  
throbbed with every jump of the horse, but it was a prize he was willing to  
pay for the faster journey.

They galloped for a long time, before Anakil decided to give the horse a  
break. He allowed the animal to drink some water before continuing at a  
much slower pace.

“Are you all right?” the boy asked.

Beldil grunted and put his injured right arm on the boy’s right arm at his  
waist. “Well enough.”

“If you need a break or something to drink or eat or anything else, just  
let me know.”

“I am all right.” Beldil was touched by the boy’s concern. “But would you  
mind if we talked a little bit? I could use something to think about.”

“Sure.” He could feel the boy shift slightly to find a more comfortable  
position on the horseback. “What would you like to talk about?”

Beldil thought for a moment and realized that for the first time in a long  
while, he did not know what to say.

“What would you do when you could just go home?” The boy asked. “I mean,  
when the war was over and we had won. When we did not need so many soldiers  
any more. What would you do?”

Beldil thought about the question. Like everyone else his age, he had never  
known peace. “I would go home to visit my family,” he said. “I would very  
much like to see my mother and my father and my sister again. I guess I  
would stay with them for a while and enjoy my mother’s cooking and my  
father’s good wines. Thereafter I would go to the White City and offer my  
services as a messenger to the Steward. Messengers are needed even in times  
of peace, and I like this task very much.

“I would live in the White City. Maybe I would even have my own small  
house, with white windows and a lot of flowers and books everywhere. I have  
always loved flowers. And I really do love words.” The talking did not  
lessen the headache, but the pain was more bearable with something to think  
about.

“Is there a girl waiting for you in the city?”

Beldil smiled at the bold question. “Well,” he said at length. “There was a  
girl when I left home to join the army. But that was almost ten years ago,  
and I doubt that she has waited for me for such a long time. What about  
you?”

“There is a girl I like very much,” Anakil confessed. “But she does not  
care for me.”

Beldil turned his head to look at the boy. “Why not?”

The boy shrugged. “Look at me. I will be sixteen in a few month, and I  
still have to shave only once a week. And she is taller than me. What girl  
would like a boy like me, when there are taller and â€“ more grown-up boys  
around. Boys who are tall and strong enough to be trained as warriors. Boys  
who one day will be able to protect the country and a family.”

“You can do that, too, even if you don’t grow any more,” Beldil said. “You  
just do it your way.”

The boy snorted, and his warm breath tickled Beldil’s neck. “Don’t tell me.  
Tell her! Most of the girls look at me the same way they look at their  
little brothers.”

“You really do like her, do you?”

The boy nodded against Beldil’s back and said in a small voice: “Yes, I  
do.”

“What would she think of you if she heard that you saved my life, killed  
two Southrons and were deemed responsible enough to bear messages for the  
best Captain of Gondor?” He felt the boy stiffen in surprise and added: “I  
saw Anborn handing you three messages. I may be hurt, but I am not blind.”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe she would see you as you really are. You have a lot of courage,  
little brother.” Beldil smiled at his own words. When he had been a boy, he  
had always whished to have a little brother to tease and to love. Someone  
like Anakil.

“Maybe she would. But she would lose that respect the moment I get  
reprimanded by the Captain General of Gondor, maybe even expelled from the  
company. An event that will happen in less then twelve hours. To be honest,  
I feel sick with fear every time I think about it â€“ which is sixty seconds  
every minute.”

Beldil stifled a chuckle. “Don’t fear the Captain, little brother.”

“Why can nobody call me by my name? You call me little brother, Anborn  
calls me troublemaker.”

“Haven’t you realized by now? Anborn calls you troublemaker because he is  
quite fond of you. And I call you little brother because I am fond of you  
as well.”

The boy did not respond.

“Ready for another gallop?” he asked after a long pause.

“Ready,” Beldil said. He felt the boy’s arms tighten, and the horse leapt  
forward again.

 

 

They were lucky and did not encounter a single living being on their way to  
the capital of old. The sun had started to set when the ruins of the city  
and the great bridge appeared on the horizon. Anakil sighed and urged the  
horse into a slow trot. Beldil was breathing hard, and his slumped body was  
drenched in sweat. He was barely holding on. The horse was sweating as  
well, but it did not complain and snorted softly when Anakil lowered a hand  
to pat its flanks.

“Beldil,” the boy said quietly and nudged the messenger’s back with his  
chin. “We have made it. I can see Osgiliath.”

Beldil moaned in reply. “At last!”

There would be a comfortable bed and the healer’s attention for Beldil, and  
Anakil was glad for the messenger that the hard journey would be over soon.  
The merciless sun and his injuries had weakened Beldil with every passing  
hour, and he had not been in the mood to talk much.

The horse had been able to follow the river without guidance, and Anakil  
had not liked the lasting silence at all. The sight of the city did not  
fill the boy’s heart with joy. Captain Faramir had made it quite clear  
there would be no soft bed but the Captain General’s sentence for him.

He had have a lot of time to think about what he had done and to expect  
during the painful boring ride. It was a quite simple list of wrongs:

Point the first: He was a liar.

Point the second: He was a thief.

Point the third: He was a deserter.

Point the forth: He was stupid.

There was only one point he could give in his favour:

He had saved Beldil’s live.

Maybe the Captain General would take this deed into account and drop the  
charge of being a liar. That left him to be only a stupid thief and  
deserter.

He had heard stories about thieves that had been punished by severing one  
hand from their arms, some had even lost both hands. How could someone be  
able to live without his hands? Maybe he would die of the wounds. He had  
seen and helped treat severed limbs and knew that two out of three cases  
developed serious infections. Four out of ten died. Maybe it would be  
better to die than to live without his hands. But it would be a painful  
death.

If a soldier deserted his company and got caught, he was executed. Anakil  
was only a boy, not a real soldier, and Captain Faramir had told him that  
Captain Boromir would not have him executed. Captain Faramir knew the laws  
of the army, and Anakil desperately wanted to believe him. But what  
punishment waited for a deserting boy?

Black Gate Watch. The worst fate that could happen to anyone. Anakil had  
heard some whispered stories, but even the toughest boys did not like those  
stories very much. The Black Gate Watch was necessary, but nobody liked to  
think about the land whose name was never spoken, let alone talk about it  
or guard its gate. He remembered the sense of dread he had felt while  
moving eastbound on the hunt with Anborn. It had to be much worse in the  
vicinity of the Black Gate.

Maybe they would severe one of his hands and send him to the Black Gate.  
That would be worse than death.

Anakil drew a shuddering breath and tried to push the thoughts away. He had  
to take a look at his hands to assure that they were still attached to his  
arms. He could almost see the Black Gate before his tired eyes, laughing at  
him, mocking him, waiting for him.

It would be easy to leave Beldil with the healers and make his way over the  
bridge and into Gondor’s plains without being stopped. He already was a  
deserter, he could not worsen his situation.

But he had promised Captain Faramir to do the right thing for once, and he  
was determined to live up to the Captain’s trust.

Beldil gave a low moan of pain, the first sound of discomfort during the  
long ride. For Beldil’s sake Anakil urged the horse to continue as fast as  
possible.

 

 

The ruins of Gondor’s old capital came closer with every passing minute. On  
both shores of the river Anduin, there were the outlines of tall houses and  
towers of stone. The red light of the setting sun cast dark shadows on the  
ruins, but even the shadows could not lessen the beauty and pride the city  
must have possessed once, in the times of her greatness.

The heart of Osgiliath was the great bridge that crossed the Anduin. The  
river was almost a mile wide, and on the bridge there were ruins of houses  
and towers as well. In former times all of Osgiliath had been confined to  
the bridge, but the city had grown and the buildings had flowed out to both  
shores of the Anduin.

The centre of the bridge was formed by the ruin of the Great Hall of  
Osgiliath and the stones that were left of the Dome of Stars. Centuries ago  
Isildur and Anárion had had their thrones in the Great Hall, side by side,  
governing the last cities and realms of the Númenórean people.

Now the Captain General had claimed those ruins to serve as his  
headquarter.

Anakil had never walked inside those ancient broken halls. The rest of the  
city and garrison was well known to him. He was an experienced errand  
runner after all, he knew how to move about the broken houses and tents of  
the soldiers without delay.

They passed several guards before they entered the outer perimeter of the  
garrison. Anakil knew the correct passwords to enter the garrison without  
delay. He steered his horse through narrow paths between fallen stones,  
soldiers and tents to the section of the healers. Once inside the  
perimeters of the camp, nobody stopped him or questioned him, for both he  
and Beldil wore the shirts of messengers with the white tree of Gondor  
embroidered at their necklines.

He had stolen both shirt and horse. But without the shirt, he wouldn’t have  
been able to deliver the message to the Captain, and without the horse, he  
wouldn’t have reached Beldil in time to kill that last Orc. He moved his  
hands again to assure that they were still there.

“There you are again, cursed troublemaker!”

Anakil did not recognize the voice, but for a moment, he expected Anborn to  
step in front of the horse and laugh at his face. Nobody in Osgiliath could  
possibly know how he had been called in Henneth Annûn! He stopped the horse  
to take a look around. To his great relief, Lieutenant Darin was nowhere  
to be seen.

He spotted the Ranger called Mablung coming towards him, still favouring  
one leg. “I would slap you till you won’t remember your mother’s name, but  
you are lucky, I am not quite finished slapping myself for my own  
stupidity!” Mablung reached the boy on the horse and folded his arms across  
his chest, his face flushed with anger. “What were you thinking, horse boy,  
to just take my message and disappear from the face of the earth for four  
days? Were you thinking anything at all? Curse you, I have been sick with  
worry. Answer me, if you value your life!” He stopped his own angry speech  
and took at look at the slumped figure sitting in front of the boy on the  
ugly horse. “Beldil?” he asked, his voice a little calmer. “Beldil, is that  
you?”

Beldil raised his head and forced a smile onto his dry and cracked lips.  
“Mablung.”

Mablung stepped closer and cocked his head to have a better look at the  
messenger’s face. “Beldil, what happened to you? You look scarier than most  
of my people that had too close contact with those cursed Orcs.”

“Orcs as well,” Beldil said. “Too many Orcs.”

Mablung’s gaze strayed back to Anakil’s face. “You really have been to  
Henneth Annûn, horse boy,”, he said, disbelief in his voice.

“I have,” Anakil said.

“ I can’t believe you were that lucky, horse boy.” Mablung rubbed one hand  
over his stubbly face. “I sent a man after you less than twelve hours after  
your disappearance. He returned yesterday morning after avoiding bands of  
those cursed Orcs and Southrons for two days. He didn’t make it close to  
Henneth Annûn.” Mablung rubbed his face again. “I have been sorry for the  
Captain all week. He always worries too much, you know, cursed horse boy.”

“Please, my lord, I am willing to endure your slaps, but please, restrain  
yourself until I have delivered Beldil to the healers.”

“You cursed troublemaker call me my lord?” Mablung snorted. “Do I look and  
act like someone who has to be called my lord? Are you injured as well,  
horse boy?”

“A little,” Anakil said.

“Head injury?”

“Just a bump, my lord.”

“Sounds much worse.” Mablung snorted again.

The Ranger Lieutenant took the horse by the bridle and led it further down  
the ancient road. “Damrod!” he called. “Damrod, that cursed disappearing  
horse boy is back. And, you won’t believe me, he has been all the way to  
Henneth Annûn! He has a scratch or two, but he has been there and back  
again. Give me a hand over here, would you?”

A second man in the garb of the Rangers appeared from behind some tents.

“That trouble making horse boy here calls me my lord,” Mablung said and  
pointed a thumb at Anakil.

The second Ranger grinned. “He obviously does not know you very well.”

“He has delivered my message to the Captain. Do you have an answer,  
troublemaker?”

“I have messages for the Captain General,” Anakil said. “Do you know where  
to find him.”

Mablung stopped the horse. “Get down,” he ordered. “I will take you to the  
Captain, Damrod will care for Beldil and the horse.”

Anakil obediently dismounted and moved his injured arm back into the white  
sling around his neck. He stepped forward to the horse’s head and tenderly  
patted the thick neck. “Good old boy,” he murmured. “Thank you, old boy.”

“Come on, young troublemaker, horse boy, messenger - whatever you’re  
called.” Mablung put his arm around the boy’s shoulders to steer him away  
from the horse. “Your horse and Beldil are in good hands. Let’s go see the  
Captain. I am sure he will be pleased to hear some news from Ithilien.”

“You can call me Anakil, for that is my name, my lord,” Anakil said.  
“Anakil son of Anabar of the Anduin.”

“You can call me Mablung, Anakil son of Anabar. If you continue calling me  
my lord, I will call you troublemaker until you are old enough to have  
grandsons. You are lucky little bastard, you know? I am glad you made it  
back in one piece, young Anakil. I have decided to be angry with you and  
slap you thoroughly when there are less witnesses.”

 

 

Anakil was glad they did not meet Lieutenant Darin or one of the other boys  
on their way to the ruins of the Great Hall. He did not want them to see  
him in his present state of rising and badly repressed panic. They were  
already laughing at him enough without him showing any weakness.

Beginning darkness was casting long shadows over the great garrison when  
Mablung and Anakil walked over the great bridge. The Anduin flowed far  
beneath their feet, and Anakil could not think of anything else than the  
reason he had to walk this path at this hour of the day.

Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid.

Mablung’s arm was still draped across his shoulders, and he was glad for  
the older man’s presence, even though he did not know him very well.

“What is it?” Mablung asked, as he felt the narrow shoulders tremble  
slightly in anticipation and more than a little fear. “Are you cold?  
Feverish?”

Anakil shook his head. “No, I am fine. It is just…” He raked one hand  
trough his unruly hair. “I am afraid what Captain Boromir might do to me,  
once he finds out I left my post for four days.”

“He will neither execute nor eat you,” Mablung chuckled. “And be assured,  
he already knows.”

“Captain Faramir said exactly the same thing.”

“You can trust Captain Faramir’s words, if you do not trust mine,” Mablung  
assured him.

 

 

They reached the ruins of the Great Hall, and Mablung motioned the boy to  
wait outside while he went in search of the Captain. Anakil sat down on a  
fallen stone in what had once been the yard in front of the hall. Soldiers  
were moving about, busy with the daily operation of the garrison. The boy  
felt lost and alone among the tall men, and he was glad he had stumbled  
across Mablung. The Ranger had been nice enough, despite Anakil’s annoyance  
that Mablung had picked the same nickname as Anborn to call him by. He was  
sure the Ranger would scold him later on for his actions, but he did not  
mind, for the scolding of a Ranger Lieutenant could not be worse than the  
wrath of the Captain General.

Two soldiers guarded the entrance to the Great Hall, two black shapes  
standing motionless before what had once been a great entrance, now only a  
shadow of its former glory, black in the twilight. A black gate. Black like  
the land whose name no one spoke aloud. Black like Orcish blood. The Orcish  
blood on his coat. Black like human blood when left in the open to dry and  
rot. The human blood on his cloak, Beldil’s blood. Black like the limbs of  
the wounded, before the healer severed those parts from the rest of the  
body. Anakil trembled and hid his left hand under the white sling, glad to  
be able to feel his fingers twitching.

Mablung returned after a little while, leading a dark haired man in the  
garb of an officer of the realm. Anakil jumped to his feet and placed his  
good arm behind his back to keep himself from twisting the white sling with  
his fingers.

“Captain Boromir,” Mablung said by way of introduction and stepped back.  
“This is the boy I told you about.”

“My lord,” Anakil said, cursing his unpredictable breaking voice for the  
high squeak that left his throat. His heart was beating so fast, he was  
afraid his chest might burst under the strain. He forced himself to raise  
his gaze and look into the Captain’s eyes.

Captain Boromir was even taller than Captain Faramir, and noticeably  
stronger in build. His long black hair was tied back from his face, and his  
grey eyes seemed to pierce the boy with an intense stare.

Anakil had to take only a single glimpse at the man’s face to curse himself  
for his own stupidity. It was the same face that had greeted him in Henneth  
Annûn, slightly older and adorned with a well-trimmed beard, but the same  
face nevertheless.

He had known the Steward of Gondor had two sons, but he had never thought  
about the possibility that the second son was a ranking Captain in the army  
as well. The boys had never talked about him, so he had assumed the second  
son was not worth mentioning, like all the other great lords of the realm  
that gave council to the Steward in the White City. But it was unmistakable  
that Captain Boromir and Captain Faramir were brothers, the two sons of the  
Steward.

He bit his lip and forced his gaze to remain on the Captain’s face.

“Anakil son of Anabar?” the Captain asked, and Anakil could not help  
wincing slightly. Even the brother’s voices were quite alike.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You were very sorely missed in the last four days,” the Captain said  
gravely.

Mablung twinkled and smiled at the boy from behind the Captain’s back, but  
Anakil was not in the mood to smile back. “My lord, I cannot excuse my  
behaviour, but I can explain…

Captain Boromir dismissed the words that Anakil had carefully formulated  
during the too long ride with a wave of his hand. “I don’t want to hear  
that right now. You have messages from Ithilien, I believe?”

Anakil nodded his head, and his left hand crept inside his pocket. He  
fingered the messages, pushing back the image of his severed hand moving on  
its own, blood dripping on the white envelopes, staining the message, his  
pocket, his pants, his boots, the floor. “Yes, my lord.”

The Captain turned around to face Mablung. “Thank you for bringing this boy  
to my attention,” he said. “I would like to talk to him alone now.”

“Of course.” Mablung bowed. “Captain Boromir.”

“Lieutenant Mablung.” The Captain bowed his head in return, and Mablung  
limped away.

Anakil would have given two years of his life to be allowed to leave with  
him. He presented the messages to the Captain with a deep bow to hide his  
fearful face. There was nothing he could do to keep his hand from  
trembling. “My lord,” he said. “Captain Faramir trusted me with these  
messages to deliver them to you.”

The Captains face lit up slightly at the sound of his brother’s name, and  
he accepted the envelopes.

“I was also instructed to present myself to you to receive proper  
punishment for what I have done.” Anakil had to take a deep, shuddering  
breath as these words left his lips.

He should have dropped Beldil with one of the guards and left before  
stumbling upon Mablung. He could have been safe on Gondor’s plains right  
now, on his way to the north, maybe to Rohan or beyond. Away from the war.  
Away from the fear. Away from the Captain’s grey eyes, black in the  
darkness. Away from his stern face that was so much like his brother’s, but  
that lacked the hidden gentleness and sadness. Anakil just wanted to curl  
up next to his horse on a bed of grass next to the river and escape into a  
dream world. A world without war and Black Gates and severed limbs and pain  
and stern Captains.

Captain Boromir raised a dark eyebrow. “Faramir sent you to me to receive  
punishment? He did not punish you himself?”

Anakil shook his head miserably. “I believe there is an explanation in one  
of those letters, my lord,” he said.

“Then you will have to stay until I have finished reading them.”

Captain Boromir took a look at the seals of the envelopes. He stuffed two  
envelopes into the pocket of his cloak, broke the seal of the third and  
pulled out the message. It was too dark now to read the neatly written  
words. The Captain retreated to the broken wall that had once encircled the  
yard and lit a torch. He sat down on an intact piece of the low wall in a  
less frequented part of the yard and handed Anakil the torch. “Hold this  
while I read,” he ordered.

Anakil did not dare to move while the Captain scanned through the content  
of the message. Maybe Captain Faramir had voted to let him keep his hands.  
“A long letter. Why am I not surprised?” The boy stared at his feet and  
therefore did not see the smile that crept onto the Captain’s stern face as  
he read the message a second time.

“Faramir has written down a full account of what you have done, to both my  
company and his,” he finally said.

Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid.

The boy could not think of anything worse to do to his company. He did not  
summon up the courage to raise his gaze. He had to force himself to  
continue breathing. “I am sorry, my lord,” he whispered.

“I doubt neither Faramir’s words nor your remorse.” Captain Boromir  
regarded the slumped figure of the small boy. “You did little harm to this  
company by leaving your post without permission, except upsetting  
Lieutenant Darin, Lieutenant Mablung and two very concerned soldiers of  
this company who claim to be your brothers.”

Anakil had not thought of his brothers before. They must be sick with worry  
and shame.

“But you stole a horse and a shirt and pretended to be something you are  
not and, according to Faramir’s letter, never intended to be.”

Anakil nodded again. “All true, my lord,” he admitted.

Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid.

There was nothing he could say to defend himself. It was no defence that  
his deeds did not do much harm. How could he do much harm, stupid horse  
boy, errand runner, barber that he was? He was dead, he decided. The dead  
watch on the Black Gate without both of his hands. Dead.

“What shall I do with you now, young soldier? You left your post, but by  
doing this you saved the life of one of your comrades. Without your wrongs,  
this man would be dead by now. There is nothing written down on how to  
proceed with cases as yours. Therefore I have to create an example.”

Anakil suddenly realized they were still in the open yard, a rather strange  
place to decide about someone’s punishment.

Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid.

The Captain wanted to create an example. An example for all to see what  
happened to thieves and deserters, even young and small thieves and  
deserters. He hoped his brothers were not about to see him now. He stuffed  
his left hand into the back of his breeches in a futile attempt to hide it.  
Maybe he could live without the hand. He could ride with one hand. He could  
wield a sword with one hand. But he could still lie, steal, desert and be  
stupid with one hand…

“Look at me!” the Captain commanded sharply.

Anakil slowly raised his head to meet a pair of blazing grey eyes.

“Faramir is of the opinion that you have already been punished severely,  
and I agree with him. The fear of what might happen, imagination running  
wild, is in most cases worse than the actual event. That is what Faramir  
had in mind for you. The thoughts and doubts and fears you most probably  
have had during your journey from Henneth Annûn to Osgiliath must have  
troubled you more than any punishment I can think of, taking into account  
that Faramir put great effort in making you believe you had to expect a  
strict and fierce sentence. Speak up if you disagree.”

Severed hands. Black Gate Watch. A lot of time to think about all these  
things. A lot of time to think about running away. The Captain’s stern face  
and commanding voice. “He told me to expect harsh punishment from your  
hands,” Anakil whispered, very close to tears. “And I believed him. How  
could I not?” He pulled his hand out of his breeches to rub away the  
moisture that had started to emerge from his eyes and nose. He did not want  
the Captain see him crying in an open yard. He was a soldier after all, and  
soldiers did not cry.

“You received your punishment, a long day of your own thoughts and doubts  
and figments of your imagination.”

Anakil winced at the word “punishment”, closed his eyes and pressed his  
lips into a thin line to prepare himself for what the Captain had to say.  
It took him a few seconds to realize the Captain had not continued with his  
speech, and he needed a few more seconds to comprehend the meaning of the  
words he had just heard.

Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid. - Being a lucky little bastard!

The boy’s shoulders slumped in relief, and he had to wipe his eyes and nose  
again. He could not believe someone could get this lucky. No severed hands,  
no Black Gate Watch, not even a day cleaning the stables on his own. Maybe  
Lieutenant Darin would add that later on, but he did not care if he had to  
clean the stables for weeks, as long as he had both hands to do it. He was  
sure he would dream about losing his hands for a least a month… and about  
the Black Gate!

He bit his lip and nodded slowly. Briefly he wondered how Captain Faramir,  
who had seen and talked to him only twice in his life, could judge him so  
well.

“But that is not quite enough. You received Captain Faramir’s punishment,  
and I fully agree with him, but there is something I would like to add.”

Anakil stiffened again. Black Gate Watch after all!

“You left your assigned post and pretended to be a messenger, even though  
your wish is to be trained as a warrior. As a result, that will never  
happen now. According to Captain Faramir, you proved to be an able  
messenger, so you have chosen your future fate in this company yourself. As  
soon as your injuries are properly healed, you will be trained as a  
messenger.”

A messenger. A messenger needed both hands. A messenger was not needed to  
guard the Black Gate. A messenger was allowed to use a horse. A messenger  
had to be able to fight. A messenger did not have to clean the stables and  
cut the men’s hair. A messenger was not a real warrior, but after spending  
some time with Anborn Anakil seriously doubted he would ever be a good  
warrior, even with a few inches more in height and the appropriate  
training. Maybe he could work together with Beldil in the future. Beldil  
was his friend.

Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid. - Being a really lucky little  
bastard.

The boy did not understand why the Captain offered him a reward, but he did  
not ask.

The Captain folded the open message, put it into his pocket and smiled down  
at the terrified boy. It was an open and honest smile, the same smile his  
brother smiled far away in a hidden cave of Ithilien. “Now go and present  
yourself to the healers to let them have a look at your arm. And thereafter  
hurry to find your brothers.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Anakil whispered. I will be a messenger! A messenger  
with a horse and both hands and no Black Gate Watch! He wanted to laugh and  
cry and hug Captain Faramir and even Captain Boromir at the same time.

“Don’t thank me,” Captain Boromir said. “I think you know yourself whom you  
should thank instead.”

“My lord.” Anakil had spent enough time in the military to recognize a  
dismissal when he heard one. He bowed, turned on his heels and sprinted  
away.


	9. Osgiliath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

IX

Anakil’s left hand still grasped the torch as he sprinted over the great bridge to the western shore of the Anduin. Shortly before his feet touched solid ground again, he stopped to catch his breath and peer over the high parapet down onto the black water, flowing southbound towards the sea.

 

 

The broad, stony arch of the bridge, wide enough to contain two rows of houses, was carried by six broad piers of varying strength and height. The bridge had been partly broken by forces from the east more than 500 years ago and had never been rebuilt. But all six piers and the greater part of the stony arch and the ruins, mostly on the western side, had remained entirely unscathed. The soldiers of Gondor had repaired the bridge with sturdy wooden planks, closing the gaps that had loomed between the first, second and third pier on the eastern side. They had secured the minor damages on the western part of the arch as well. The bridge was the only connection between Ithilien and the plains of Gondor, except for some fords and the ferry at Cair Andros, and therefore it was fiercely guarded. Some soldiers dreamed of restoring the great bridge and the houses on it to their former glory, but it was impossible to realize such an expensive operation in times of war.

 

 

The Anduin was wide and therefore slow and shallow at Osgiliath, but in the middle, between the third and forth pier, it was deep enough for all ships to sail without the peril of grounding on the riverbed. The bridge arched high above the Anduin, but not high enough for the masts of tall ships to pass beneath. For those ships unable to pass, the people of Osgiliath had dug shipping canals into the bed of the Anduin, leading to quays on both shores. The quays were in ruins as well, and time had filled the shipping canals with sand and sediments stirred by the moving water. Only a single canal leading to the western quays had been dug out by Captain Boromir’s soldiers, and the quay had been partly rebuilt, to allow ships from the south to land and provide the garrison with supplies. But the channel was narrow, and only a few knew its exact location, for it wasn’t recorded on any map.

 

 

One ship was docked on the quay, a small trader from the south, most probably filled with cloth and wine. There were a few lights on the ship, a lantern swaying softly in the wind, otherwise the quay was dark.

 

 

It was quiet between the ruins, only the guards and the officers were moving about. None of the ruins had been completely rebuilt, but some of them had been equipped with wooden roofs to make them more comfortable. Those ruins on the bridge served as homes for the ranking officers, quarters for guests and storerooms for supplies. The big kitchens and dining halls were situated there as well.

 

 

The soldiers were camped on both shores. The greater part of the fighting company had put up their tents on the eastern shore, the western shore was used mostly for training purposes. There were some healers camped there as well, to patch up those who sustained injuries during training.

 

 

Anakil stood on tiptoe so he could spit over the parapet into the dark water. He still could not believe his luck. He was a liar, a thief, a deserter, a stupid idiot, and here he was, assigned to enter messenger’s training as soon as his wounds were healed. They hadn’t hurt his body, they hadn’t send him away to die, they had just let him suffer the agony his own thoughts had provided him with. Captains of Gondor were too clever to rely on force, they worked in more subtle ways than Anakil had ever thought possible.

 

 

He spat into the water again, trying to rid his mouth of the foul aftertaste of fear. In the darkness of the night, he could still imagine the Black Gate, laughing at him, but it was not waiting for him any more. There were others who had to go there, and even though Anakil didn’t wish to take their place, he pitied them for the gruesome fate most of them would meet. A fate more terrible than an afternoon in the heat, full of fear.

 

 

He rubbed the left side of his face against his left upper arm to wipe away dirt and sweat. Captain Boromir had spared him the fate he had vividly imagined all day long, but he still had to survive the encounter with Lieutenant Darin. Unconsciously his feet had taken him to the western shore of the Anduin, for Lieutenant Darin and the other boys most probably were in their quarters on the eastern shore. The boy was still confused, a little afraid and weary beyond fatigue, he didn’t feel ready for this confrontation just now. The healers on the western shore were less busy than their eastern shore colleagues, he could let them take a look at his injuries. He spat into the water for the last time and continued on his way to those healers.

 

 

 

The small, dark haired, terrified boy bowed, turned around and sprinted away, clutching the flickering torch in his left hand. The boy seemed to know his way around the ruins on the bridge, he didn’t slow down or stumble while avoiding fallen stones on the ground. Captain Boromir reminded himself that the boy was a soldier of Osgiliath, it was expected of him to know his way around the garrison. Children were fighting this war!

The retreating figure vanished behind a fallen building of old, a building that had been a great house many years ago. All those ruins had been great buildings in the time of Osgiliath’s greatness, standing proud in the shadow of the Great Hall and the Tower of the Stone.

 

 

It was a dark night, and he heard his Lieutenants uttering orders to double the watches. The activity of Orcs and Southrons had increased in the last month. Everybody knew that Osgiliath, even though the strongest and best defended garrison in Gondor, was no safe haven any more. Two out of five patrols on the eastern shore of the Anduin did not return. Most that did return reported bands of Orcs and Southrons spying in the woods of Ithilien, moving in a half circle around the capital of old. Osgiliath relied partly on the reports of the Ithilien Rangers, who were the best scouts, appearing and disappearing as it served their purpose.

 

 

The arrival of Lieutenant Mablung’s exhausted and injured company had shattered whatever hope the Ithilien scouts had held up. If a rather large scouting company of Ithilien had to flee from the advancing enemy, the enemy’s strength must have increased noticeably.

 

 

The costs of this war were high and mounted higher with every passing day. Boromir had gotten used to the sight and smell of the dead long ago, but it got harder and harder to ignore that no benefit for Osgiliath or Gondor resulted from those men’s ultimate sacrifices. They died, simply died, at the hand of an overwhelming enemy.

 

 

Boromir was an idealist by nature, but the many letters his aides wrote to inform families in Gondor of the death of a loved one sometimes left him doubting everything he and his men had accomplished.

 

 

Now there was this boy. This boy that had run away from Osgiliath to escape an unpleasant and disliked duty. This boy that had crossed the woods of Ithilien unscathed, on the back of a working horse, that had fought Orcs and saved a comrade’s life, and that had returned likewise unchallenged, wounded, with a wounded messenger in his care and three letters from Henneth Annûn in his dirty pockets. That small boy had accomplished more than many scouts and soldiers that had dared to enter the woods of Ithilien: That boy had stayed alive.

 

 

That boy could mean that nothing was lost, that everything was possible. The men desperately needed some hope, a story with a happy ending, even if it was only a lucky little boy on a working horse. A lucky little boy on a working horse that had stayed alive. Even the smallest, most insignificant soldier could make a difference.

 

 

Boromir sighed and turned away from the darkness. The boy had taken the only torch in this area of the yard, he had to go inside to read his brother’s two unopened letters.

 

 

The yard had fallen quiet, for his Lieutenants had gone to the check the watches on both shores. Only the guards at the entrance to the ruin of the Great Hall had remained at their posts. The men bowed their heads as Boromir walked through the great gate and passed into his headquarters. Flickering torches on the walls lit the interior.

 

 

The base of the Great Hall was a perfect circle. Once there had been a well-lit corridor around the outer rim of the circle, connecting heavy wooden doors that had led to rooms on the outside walls. Now there were only holes in the walls where the doors had once been, the wood had rotted away a long time ago. Most of those rooms, as well as the greater part of the corridor, still had a roof, and therefore these places were used to store maps and other important items that had to be kept away from wind and moisture.

 

 

The most significant part of the building was the Great Hall. It formed the centre of the circle, and it could be entered through only four doors, facing north, south, east and west. Those doors had been forged of iron, and they were still there. The eastern door was never opened, even though it was the door closest to the only entrance to the building. Boromir always entered the Great Hall from the west, and by silent understanding, everybody else did so as well.

Boromir took one of the torches and made his way through the wide, partly destroyed corridor to the western door. The door was closed, obscuring the view into one of Gondor’s legacies of the past. He touched one of the heavy iron wings with the tip of his boot, and the door opened without a sound.

 

 

The Great Hall had been one of the greatest pieces of architecture of all of Gondor, and even in ruins it emanated the glory and proud dignity of its past. The dome had collapsed, and not a single fallen stone had been moved since that day. In some areas the debris was piled higher than man height, while in other parts of the room, there wasn’t a single fragment of stone on the floor. Wind and water had washed away whatever pictures might have been on the walls and on the floor, and on clear nights, the moon and the stars lit the room, bathing it in an eerie glow. The thrones of Isildur and Anárion had once been in the centre of the circle, being the centre of the building as well as the centre of the entire bridge. They were buried under a large pile of debris now, higher than two men, and most probably they had been completely destroyed by the heavy stone fragments.

 

 

Boromir had set up two large tents amidst the rubble. One served as his personal quarters, and nobody had ever seen the inside except his brother, on the very few occasions he had visited Osgiliath. The second tent was the council chamber of Osgiliath, where Boromir met with his Lieutenants every morning and sometimes in the afternoon as well to discuss the affairs of the company.

 

 

Boromir considered himself a man of action. He preferred to remain among his men rather than command from the safety of the White City. His Lieutenants were soldiers like him, they didn’t need many words and didn’t tend to discuss facts that couldn’t be changed. Therefore their council was honest and lacked the tactics and politics of the Lord’s of the city, wrapped into careful words. The Captain of the White Tower had never been a man of unnecessary words. He had opened and closed many councils in Osgiliath since he had last spoken to his father the Steward in person. He had been away from the White City far too long. He knew the Steward would send for him soon to discuss the affairs of Gondor’s army with the Lords of the realm.

 

 

He entered his personal tent, lit a bright lamp and extinguished the torch. His tent was spacious, almost as big as the tent that served as council chamber. The only furniture was a small wooden table with two chairs. A pitcher of water and a wooden cup had been placed on the table next to some maps, letters, papers and a vial of ink. At the rear of his tent were his cot and a more comfortable chair, covered with his spare clothing and armour. Otherwise the tent was empty.

 

 

He kept no other personal belongings in his quarters in Osgiliath. He had stopped counting the years he had spent in this tent, but he was careful that it remained just that, a tent he used in times of war. Minas Tirith was his home, and he would return there to be Lord of the city and Steward of the realm one day, so he kept his personal items in his rooms in the White City.

 

 

He smiled a little as he cleared a spot on the table to set down the lamp, before he lowered himself onto a chair to read his brother’s messages. Faramir would, given a personal space as large as this tent, clutter it up with books and maps and other things in no time. It had been more than three years since he had seen his brother, but he seriously doubted Faramir would ever change in that matter.

 

 

He put the already opened message about the boy onto the table, drew his dagger and scrutinized the seals of the two closed messages before deciding which one had to be opened first. One definitely was a personal letter. The seal was upside down, indicating the content was neither official nor of importance to anyone other than the recipient. The personal words of his brother had to wait until he had taken care of business.

 

 

He sliced open the official letter and removed the piece of paper. It was a short letter, penned down in Faramir’s neat handwriting, covering less than half of the small sheet. It was a letter his brother had written more than once, a letter he himself did not have to write, for in a garrison of Osgiliath’s size, aides wrote down the daily business.

 

 

Reporting the death of a soldier was daily business. Boromir signed all those letters, he read all the names of the dead, but sometimes he had no face connected with the name. Faramir did not have an aid to do the difficult duty of writing a letter to the family. Ithilien was a small company, Faramir was acquainted with every single one of his men, and Boromir knew his brother grieved for every dead Ranger. Boromir grieved as well, but only for the dead brother in arms he had not known well or not at all. He would give a lot to spare his brother this pain, but he knew too well that this didn’t lie within his powers. He had always protected his younger brother when they had been boys in the city, but he could not protect him from the cruelty of war and the responsibility of command.

 

 

The brothers had promised each other to write often when Faramir had left the White City to take over the command in Ithilien many years ago, and in the beginning, they had kept that promise, sending letters with every runner and messenger that passed between Osgiliath and Henneth Annûn.

 

 

With passing years their letters had never stopped entirely, but they had become infrequent, as well as their rare meetings. Boromir had to divide his time between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath, being aid and student of his father the Steward, Captain General of the army and commanding Captain of the Osgiliath at the same time, while Faramir had to prepare the Rangers of Ithilien to withstand the increasing force of the enemy in the east.

 

 

Faramir’s personal letter was long, several pages of small writing, funny and sad stories of the Ithilien Rangers that had taken place in the last months. Faramir had always been good at writing down stories, and Boromir found himself laughing out loud for seemingly the first time in days. There was a story about the horse boy from Osgiliath as well, about how his big and heavy horse had tried to enter the tunnel that led into Henneth Annûn, and how Faramir and some of his men had tried to prevent it from entering without injuring the animal and without getting injured themselves; a story that of course had not been contained in the official letter about the boy he had read in the yard.

 

 

Boromir had never been to Henneth Annûn. His duties did not leave the time to travel to Ithilien and visit his brother’s hideout. When the war was over, when Ithilien was at peace, he would go there and take a look at the Window on the West. But until this war was over, he had to fight for Gondor, harder and longer than anyone in the line of the Stewards had fought before him.

 

 

The brothers had always been honest with each other, they had always written down their fears and sorrows. Therefore, Boromir knew that Ithilien was falling, slowly but inevitably. The Ithilien Rangers were strong and clever, but they could not defeat the forces from the east, they could only delay their progress. The cut in supplies for Ithilien made it even more difficult for the company to get along, and Faramir and his men were weary. Faramir had not been to the safety of the White City for quite a long time now, and even if he had, Boromir knew Minas Tirith’s walls did not bring much peace and hours of quiet and rest to his younger brother.

 

 

Boromir would lead his men to the Black Gate and back to bring Gondor much needed peace, and he knew that Faramir and all the other Captains of the realm would follow him, but he also knew that this was one of the few things he could not do. He had fought many battles and had been victorious against impossible odds. His father trusted him, his brother loved him, his men loved him, the people of Gondor loved him, but nevertheless he was just a man, and there was one single battle he could not win yet.

 

 

He remembered the admiration that had been in the small, dirty boy’s fearful gaze less than an hour ago. This boy trusted him to set things right, and he would do so, regardless of the personal costs. He would not disappoint the trust this single boy had in his strength, nor would he disappoint all of Gondor. Gondor might be weakening under the strain the enemy put upon it, but Gondor would not fall. It would not fall as long as he was Captain General of the army, and it would not fall when he’d become Steward one day. He owed this to the dirty boy, to his people, his men, his brother, his father and most of all to himself.

 

 

He put the two official letters aside and stuffed his brother’s private words into the pocket of his cloak. He would read them again before going to bed, but he wasn’t tired yet. It was two hours before midnight, the largest part of the garrison should already be asleep by now.

 

 

Boromir rubbed his eyes and sighed.

 

 

As Captain General and heir to the stewardship, the men respected him and loved him with fierce determination, but there was not a single one of them he could call a close personal friend. Such was the burden that was attached to command and responsibility, and he was used to bearing the loneliness of the nights and the lack of laughter and company. He had never had close friends, except his younger brother when they had been boys in the city. All of his few childhood companion were long dead or stationed at garrisons far away. He dined alone, for during the meals the men exchanged their stories, and he did not want to silence them with his presence.

 

 

He decided to take a bath in the shallow river below the bridge before retiring for the night. The bathing place was always crowded during daytime, but he guessed he would be alone now with the guards and the darkness. He did not like to reveal his battle scarred body to the men, some of whom thought him invulnerable. He didn’t want to shatter their illusions. He shrugged off his heavy cloak and left his tent.

 

 

 

The healers’ tent was well lit, and one of their aides greeted Anakil with a smile, as he slowly made his way to the entrance.

 

 

“Good evening,” the aid said. “You are looking for help, I suppose?”

 

 

Anakil was relieved that he didn’t recognize the face and voice of this particular aid. It was none of the boys from the eastern shore. “Good evening to you,” he replied. “I was sent here to have the healers take a look at my injured arm.” He gestured to his sling with his head. “I returned from Ithilien this evening.”

 

 

“You must be the trouble making horse boy everybody is talking about. The one that has been to North Ithilien and back. Anakil of the Anduin, isn’t it?” The aid took Anakil’s elbow to lead him inside the tent.

 

 

Anakil ignored the help and stopped dead in his tracks. “Everybody is talking about me?” he whispered, mortified. “How can everybody know I have returned? I entered the garrison less than an hour ago. This cannot be!”

 

 

The aid chuckled quietly. “This is Osgiliath,” he said. “News travels fast. But don’t worry, you are safe with most of the lads. I am not so sure about your Lieutenant, though. People say he is running around the garrison, cursing you and all your ancestors, looking for you.”

 

 

Anakil could imagine Lieutenant Darin’s words and face. “Please, should he ask for me, don’t tell him you saw me!” he whispered. “I don’t want to meet him today. Maybe his fury will abide during a good night’s sleep.”

 

 

“I promise I won’t tell him,” the aid said, freed the torch from Anakil’s tight grasp and carefully urged the boy to step inside the tent.

 

 

Anakil did not resist any more and gratefully accepted a cup of water and a seat on a soft chair. His arm itched and burned, his face was sweaty and dirty, and he had to force his eyes to remain open.

 

 

“Anakil of the Anduin, I suppose?” The voice was deep and friendly.

 

 

Anakil turned his head and greeted the healer with a tired nod of his head. “I am Anakil, my lord.” The aid had quietly disappeared.

 

 

The healer lit some small lamps hanging from the roof of the tent. “I know you are tired and weary. I will just take a quick look at your arm, then you can go to sleep. I know you have been riding all day, and Ithilien’s sun is merciless.”

 

 

“Does everybody here know everything about me?” Anakil asked, desperation in his voice.

 

 

The healer smiled and put a soothing hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Lieutenant Mablung was here more than half an hour ago, telling me you would most probably come to visit me soon. The Lieutenant told me you helped an injured comrade to reach Osgiliath. I honestly don’t care if the other stories about you are true. It is my duty to heal, not to judge. Take off your shirt and show me your arm. Do you need help?”

 

 

“I can undress on my own.” Anakil got rid of the sling and carefully pulled his dirty shirt over his head. He wondered how Lieutenant Mablung could possibly have known he would turn up at the healer’s place on the western shore. The Ithilien Rangers seemed to understand the twisted way of people’s thoughts and deeds quite well.

 

 

The healer cut the bandage on his arm away with a small but sharp knife. The stitched wound on the boy’s arm was blue and red in colour, but it didn’t hurt very much when the healer carefully probed the injured flesh with his fingers.

 

 

“Arrow?” he asked. “No poison?”

 

 

Anakil nodded. “Just an arrow. From a Southron. It doesn’t hurt much any more. It just itches like hell.”

 

 

The healer nodded slowly. “Itching is good, it is an indication that the body is working to repair the damage. I advise you to keep the wound clean but not bandaged for a few days. Don’t move your arm more than necessary, but you don’t have to wear the sling if you don’t want to. If anything changes for the worse, see a healer immediately. You don’t want to risk an infection, do you?”

 

 

“Of course not, my lord,” Anakil said.

 

 

“Dou you have any other injuries?”

 

 

“Just a few scratches, my lord. And a bump at the back of my head. I fell off a tree.” Anakil didn’t want to explain in detail how that accident had happened, and the healer didn’t ask.

 

 

The healer smiled again and ruffled Anakil’s hair to carefully touch the back of his head. “I am not your mother, but I advise you to take a good nights sleep and a bath. You look exhausted and you don’t smell very good, you know, young friend. And don’t climb any trees in the next few days.”

 

 

Anakil nodded slowly. “I understand, my lord. Thank you.”

 

 

“No reason for thanks. Get going, the night will be over in the morning, Anakil. Sleep well.” The healer ruffled the boy’s hair again and disappeared behind a curtain that divided the tent into many compartments.

 

 

Anakil pulled his shirt over his head, left the tent and strolled through the ruins, training yards and stables on the western shore. He was weary beyond exhaustion, but his thoughts were running wild, and he knew sleep would not come to him yet.

The darkness of the sleeping garrison was slowly soothing his troubled mind. He called the passwords to the guards he met in the dark, and they let him pass without questions. He was just one of the boys, one young face among many, in the darkness they did not see his dirty face, did not think about the strange way he pressed his right arm close to his body, and they were not able to smell the sweat.

 

 

He passed under the bridge and realized he had come close to the bathing place. A single guard sat next to a flickering torch, a book on his lap. The bathing place was always guarded, for patrols that returned at night often felt the urge to clean themselves before going to bed.

 

 

The water of the Anduin was shallow and not dangerous between the first and the second pier of the bridge. Even Anakil could reach the second pier without being forced to swim. A single man was bathing in the dark river. His neatly folded clothes lay close to the flickering torch. The guard had readied a towel for use.

 

 

“Good evening,” Anakil greeted.

The guard raised his head. “Good evening, young friend,” the guard replied. “Soap?”

 

 

Anakil had not intended to take a bath that night, but he thought about it for a moment and considered it not a bad idea at all. “Yes, please,” he said.

 

 

The guard reached into a small box and handed him a piece of soap. Anakil carefully undressed and waded into the cold, clean river until the water reached his hips. He carefully soaped his body and hair and dove into the water headfirst to get rid of the foam and grime.

 

 

He had been raised on the shores of the Anduin, the water was like a second home to him. He clutched the soap with his right hand, pressed the injured arm against his chest and moved his left arm and both legs to swim with forceful strokes. The clear water felt wonderful on his skin, cleaning the scratches on his body and cooling the bump on the back of his head. He kept his eyes closed, for it was way too dark to see anything anyway.

 

 

Lack of air made him surface again, and he shook his head like a dog to shake the water out of his hair.

 

 

“Be careful where you’re going in the dark, soldier,” a slightly familiar voice told him.

 

 

Anakil opened his eyes and discovered a broad chest, less than arm’s length away. He slowly raised his head to look into Captain Boromir’s stern face. “My lord,” he croaked. “I am sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to…”

 

 

“Anakil of the Anduin,” the Captain chuckled softly. “Or should I call you troublemaker? Even with one arm, you swim like a fish.”

 

 

Anakil lowered his gaze and was grateful that the water was deep enough that even a man of Captain Boromir’s height was covered to the waist. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to…my lord.” Troublemaker again! He didn’t find the appropriate answer just now. He even wasn’t able to utter a coherent sentence.

 

 

His gaze strayed to the Captain’s bare chest and arms, well muscled and powerful. But the skin was marred with the scars of many battles. The Captain’s long black hair, curling with moisture, could not hide the old wounds. Anakil had never thought about the fact that the Captain, any Captain, could be seriously wounded in a fight. How could he? He was the Captain, heir to the Steward, the hero and shining example of every boy on both shores of the Anduin!

 

 

Suddenly he realized that the Captain, this Captain of whom he had been scared to death only two hours ago, was only a man like everybody else. He could laugh, he could cry, he could worry, he could doubt, he could despair, he could be afraid. He could feel pain, he could bleed, he could die. He could enjoy a lonely bath in the middle of the night.

 

 

The boy pondered if Captain Faramir had been wounded as often as his brother as well.

 

 

The Captain seemed to be amused by the boy’s obvious embarrassment. “Close your mouth when you dive again, young Anakil,” he advised. “Good night. Sleep well, young soldier.”

 

 

“Good night, my lord.” Anakil decided it would be best to close his mouth indeed and swim away as fast as possible. Why, of all soldiers of Osgiliath, did it have to be the Captain that bathed this night?

 

 

He took a deep breath and dived away. This time he kept his eyes open, even though there was nothing to see except the faint flicker of light on the shore.

 

 

The river got so shallow that his knees touched the ground, and he moved his head out of the water, gasping for air. Slowly he turned his head to see the Captain’s head and shoulders above the waterline, a safe distance away now.

 

 

“There you are, cursed troublemaker! Somehow I knew I would find you here!”

 

 

Anakil clenched both hands into fists, and the soap slid out of his right hand. He recognized the voice. He didn’t have to turn his head to confirm who had come to see him. Slowly he rose out of the water and slicked his hair out of his face with one hand. His body was dripping wet, large drops searched their way over his cheeks and nose like silent tears.

 

 

“Look at me!”

 

 

Anakil squared his shoulders and raised his head to meet Lieutenant Darin’s furious gaze.

 


	10. The Lieutenants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

X

There was warmth. It was all around him, covering his body from his toes almost to his shoulders. He tried to grab whatever it was that enveloped and tried to engulf him, but his fists closed around wetness that slipped away between his fingers, mocking him. There was pain there, pain in his legs and arms and most of all in his head, but the pain was bearable. Everything was black. He did not like the darkness.

“Easy.”

The voice was very near. He wanted to shout for help, wanted to let them know he was there, in the darkness, but he could not utter a sound. He tried to move towards the voice.

“Easy. Don’t fight. You are safe.”

Safe. He liked the sound of the word. Safe.

He remembered riding in the sun. He remembered talking about girls. He remembered a small but strong arm around his waist, keeping him safe, preventing him from falling. He remembered the outline of a broken city in ruins on the horizon. He remembered voices talking, voices he knew, but he could not remember the names that belonged to them. Maybe one of the voices had been his own, he was not sure. After the voices, there was nothing tangible, only sounds and colours and feelings. Now there was darkness. He wanted to go looking for the light. His hands grabbed the warm wetness again and failed to cling to it.

“Easy Beldil. Don’t fight. Just relax. Are you awake?”

He was awake. He managed to open his eyes and was blinded by brightness and colours. Slowly his eyes got accustomed to the light, and the colours swirled around until they melted into candles and torches. He was inside a dimly lit tent, he could see the dark roof not far above.

“He is awake. You can let go of him now. Should I go and get the healer?”

He felt two hands holding on to his shoulders, then the hands were gone.

“Not yet. Finish with him and let us talk to him first. Beldil? Are you with us, lad?”

He recognized the voice, but his memory still didn’t come up with the name attached to it. He carefully turned his aching head to the left. There was a face, inches away from his own. A face covered with at least two days’ growths of dark beard, shining grey eyes, red in the dancing light of the candles, tanned, rugged features, framed by unruly black hair that fell down to broad shoulders in untamed waves, white teeth exposed by a wide and friendly smile.

“Mablung!”

“That’s right, Beldil, lad. It’s me. You can relax.”

Beldil felt the tension drain from his shoulders. He was with Mablung. He discovered he was sitting in a big iron bathtub, filled with warm water and foam that could only come from the use of soap. Mablung had rolled up both sleeves and was busy drying his hands on a small towel.

“Now that you are awake and talking, do you mind me moving your head so that I can wash your hair?”

Beldil turned his head to the right. He was greeted by another broad smile he also knew quite well.

“Damrod.”

Damrod bowed his head and put away a large piece of soap to roll up his left sleeve. “At your service, my lord messenger. Now, may I move your head?”

“You don’t have to wash me,” Beldil protested weakly.

“Yes, I do!” Damrod replied, laughing. “You were too exhausted to be bothered by the bad smell that emanated from you when you arrived, but the healer didn’t like it at all. He took a look at your injuries and made me volunteer to wash you before tucking you into bed. We couldn’t wait until tomorrow, for the healer feared you might catch an infection with all that dirt on your skin.”

“Damrod was blackmailed,” Mablung chuckled. “It was either wash you or sleep next to you. That’s why he volunteered.”

“That traitor over there just disappeared with the boy and left me alone with you and that ugly horse.” Damrod frowned and pointed his thumb at Mablung across the bathtub. “When he returned he didn’t even think about touching a piece of soap. He only got his soft hands wet to keep you from an unplanned dive in the tub. Now that you’re awake, he’s out of a job. I have to do all the work,” Damrod complained amiably. He carefully took Beldil’s head in his hands and pushed him down, mindful of the injuries, to wet the messenger’s hair. “Hold your breath, in case I should accidentally dip your nose under water,” he said.

“Had I only known you were that tender and caring.” Mablung chuckled again. “I would like to request your personal assistance when it’s my turn to take a bath. Could I make an appointment?”

Damrod grabbed a wet towel and threw it in Mablung’s direction. “Limping, nine-toed traitor!”

“Don’t mention that, you insensitive scamp! I am still in deep mourning for that toe, you know?” Mablung avoided the flying piece of cloth and straddled a nearby chair, watching Damrod’s efforts with Beldil from a safe distance. “Next time, you get trouble making horse boy, I get smelly Ranger and ugly horse,” he promised.

Beldil closed his eyes as Damrod rubbed soap into his hair. “The boy?” he asked, barely moving his closed lips, for he feared Damrod might push his mouth under water any moment. “Is the boy all right?”

“I left him with the Captain,” Mablung said. “He was exhausted and frightened, but I think he will get exactly what he deserves. The Captain is a fair judge, and that little troublemaker lied and left his post, after all.”

“He saved my life,” Beldil whispered.

“Hold your breath, Beldil. And keep your eyes closed. You are going for a dive.” Damrod pushed Beldil’s head under water to rinse the soap from his hair.

“Next time, I’ll wash on my own,” Beldil protested weakly, as he surfaced again. Damrod used a soft towel to wipe water and soap out of the messenger’s eyes.

“Avoid getting injured and that exhausted, and you can bathe on your own, without the gentle and caring assistance Mablung so desires,” Damrod said and twinkled as he dried his hands on the towel. “Do you think I am eager to scrub every piece of your body while you are taking a nap?”

“You didn’t…?”

“Yes, I did.” Damrod tossed away the towel. “You came around just in time for the finishing touches.”

“What did you just say?” Mablung interrupted, a frown on his face.

“I said he just came around in time for…,” Damrod started.

Mablung stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Not you, lad. Beldil. What did you say about the boy?”

“He saved my life.”

Mablung put both arms on the back of the chair and rested his chin in the crook of his left elbow. “Didn’t the Captain send you to safety with him?”

“He did.” Beldil obediently dipped his chin onto his chest as Damrod slung a towel around his wet head. “But nevertheless the boy saved my life. I was on my way from the White City to Henneth Annûn with messages for the Captain. A band of Orcs surprised me. I was losing the fight. The boy showed up, killed the last Orc I was unable to take down and hence saved my life. He saw to my wounds and cared for me until Anborn, Darung and Galdor joined us and took us to the cave.”

“That small boy killed an Orc?” Damrod asked, disbelief in his voice.

“That small boy killed not only an Orc, but two Southrons as well. He covered Anborn’s rear as they stumbled upon a scouting party of Southrons while hunting rabbits.” Beldil let Damrod help him scramble out of the tub. His legs felt too weak to support his body. The Ranger covered the messenger in a large towel and sat him on a chair to help him towel off and dress in clean clothes.

“I called him troublemaker. I promised to slap him next time we meet.” Mablung straightened his back, put his elbows on the backrest of the chair and buried his face in his hands.

Beldil smiled despite the exhaustion and the pain of his wounds. “Anborn called him so as well. I bet Anakil didn’t like you calling him that very much.” The messenger was tired and his breath was heavy. He did not dare to look at the stitched wounds that covered his legs and arms. Without Damrod’s gentle help he would never have succeeded in pulling on breeches and a clean, white shirt.

“He saved your life.” Mablung rubbed at his eyes with both palms and tucked his unruly hair behind his ears. “I left him alone with the Captain. I told Lieutenant Darin where I left him, and where he will most probably go when the Captain is finished with him. Poor boy!”

“Lieutenant Darin?” Beldil asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant Darin. You have never met him, have you?”

Beldil shook his head.

“But I have.” Mablung grunted, pushed back the chair he was sitting on and pulled his dark cloak tightly around his body. “I have to go. Something important has come to my attention. If you’ll excuse me, lads.” He stepped out into the darkness that surrounded the tent.

“What is he up to?” Beldil asked slowly. The warmth of the towel and the comfortable feeling of being clean distracted him too much to be able to concentrate on Mablung’s words.

“Let’s get you to bed, lad.” Damrod smiled. “Mablung is trying to save a little troublemaking horse boy from Darin’s wrath.”

Something big and dark was with him in the river. He could see it moving towards him, a dark shadow in the black water under the stony shield of the bridge’s arc. Of course there were fishes in the Anduin, but none of them was that big, and he had never heard of a fish that dared to attack a human. He shot a quick glance to the guard at the shore. The man was reading peacefully, he had not noticed anything being amiss.

The shape was still moving towards him, and automatically he sunk into a defensive crouch, his hand moving to his side to grasp the hilt of his sword. There was no sword, there wasn’t even a knife, his hand touched water and naked skin. He cursed under his breath and waited for the shadow to reveal itself or make the first move, hands ready for combat.

The dark moving form, somehow human shaped except for the lack of a right arm, surfaced less than arm’s length away, gasping for air and shaking a head full of short, dark hair. Boromir straightened and suppressed the urge to laugh. It was the lucky boy that had returned from Ithilien this evening, coming out of a long dive, his eyes still pressed shut. Boromir had not noticed anyone entering the water, but he had not paid attention to what had happened at his back. The dark, quiet night and the refreshing water had seduced him to let down his guard. It was a mistake that could not be excused.

The boy must have seen him standing in the water, but he obviously hadn’t noticed how close his dive had brought them together.

“Be careful where you’re going in the dark, soldier,” Boromir said.

The boy’s eyes shot open and widened in shock to be face to face with his Captain. His lips moved without uttering a sound. For the fraction of a second there was the fear again that Boromir had seen while talking to the boy earlier this evening. “My lord,” the boy croaked, his breaking voice no louder than a whisper. “I am sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to…”

Boromir couldn’t repress an amused chuckle any longer as he remembered the boy’s full name. “Anakil of the Anduin. Or should I call you troublemaker?” He had heard this nickname on his way to the bathing place. The whole garrison was already talking about the boy. “Even with one arm, you swim like a fish.”

The boy lowered his head. Dark, dripping hair fell onto his forehead, shielding his eyes from view. “I didn’t mean to…” He started. “I didn’t want to…my lord.” His voice reminded Boromir of Faramir’s unsteady croak when his brother had been the boy’s age. Boromir had always teased his brother about never hitting the right tone. His smile widened with memory.

The boy stared at his chest, and Boromir realized he was not staring at the skin but at the scars. The boy’s naked upper body was unmarred, except for some scratches that would heal and a stitched wound on the right upper arm that would scar a little but would never trouble him in the future. Boromir felt a little envious of the boy’s innocence in aspects of pain.

The boy stopped staring, and an embarrassed blush crept onto his cheeks.

“Close your mouth when you dive again, young Anakil,” Boromir said gently. He did not want to frighten the youth once more. “Good night. Sleep well, young soldier.”

The boy was a soldier indeed, for he always recognized a dismissal.

“Good night, my lord,” he whispered, took a deep breath, closed his mouth and disappeared below the waterline.

Boromir watched the dark shadow move away in the direction of the shore. The guard had stopped reading and was talking to someone Boromir identified as Lieutenant Darin. Rumours travelled fast in Osgiliath. Even though the Lieutenant was not on watch tonight, the arrival of his missing charge had not escaped his notice.

The boy surfaced close to the shore, where the river was too shallow for swimming. His head turned shortly, and Boromir smiled grimly in the darkness. The young soldier had put a safe distance between himself and his Captain, but he had not realized yet that his Lieutenant was closer than he most probably wanted him to be just now.

“There you are, cursed troublemaker! Somehow I knew I would find you here!” Darin spoke loud enough for Boromir to clearly understand every word.

The boy slowly scrambled to his feet. The shallow water barely reached his knees. It was too dark to be sure, but Boromir thought he saw the boy tremble for a moment.

“Look at me!” Darin was furious, his voice didn’t leave room for doubt.

The boy squared his narrow shoulders and looked up to meet the Lieutenant’s wrath. Boromir’s smile widened. Anakil of the Anduin might be a weary, frightened, naked, small horse boy, but there was no doubt he was a soldier of Gondor. He did not back down, did not run away, but met his doom with his head raised high.

Lieutenant Darin wasn’t tall but of heavy build, his upper arms the size of Anakil’s thighs. Some of the horse boys were convinced he could squeeze a raw potato to mush with one hand. His big nose was always burned red by the sun, but none of the boys dared to make jokes about this in his presence. His loud voice could almost reach the western shore from the eastern stables, but it could also be soft and friendly when he dealt with an injured horse.

Now his voice was loud enough to alert the guards at Henneth Annûn.

“Look at me!”

Anakil respected the Lieutenant, and they had gotten along quite well, for Anakil had always tried to stay out of trouble. Some of the troublemaking boys feared Lieutenant Darin’s wrath, and suddenly Anakil understood why, for he had become one of them now.

He didn’t say a word, just gazed into the Lieutenant’s small grey eyes, black in the darkness.

“Welcome back, Anakil!” Lieutenant Darin said, his voice suddenly a dangerous whisper.

Anakil would have preferred the Lieutenant shouting at him. The low voice made him clench his fists to prevent his hands from trembling. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said. He was completely naked and wet from head to toes. The night wasn’t cold, but the wind produced goose pimples on his arms and legs.

“Do you have anything to say?” Lieutenant Darin’s voice was perfectly calm now.

Anakil thought about stepping out of the water and getting a towel, but the Lieutenant had placed himself between the boy and every possibility of graceful retreat. To reach a towel, the boy had to step around the heavy man, and he was quite sure the Lieutenant would not let him move a step towards safety just now.

“I am sorry, Lieutenant Darin,” he said, even though he knew those words would prove to be useless right now.

Lieutenant Darin folded his arms across his strong chest. With a little imagination Anakil could see the hot steam venting out of the Lieutenant’s ears. Some of the boys claimed they had not only imagined but actually seen the steam forming a dark cloud above the Lieutenant’s head.

“You are sorry.” Lieutenant Darin chuckled softly, but there was no humour in his voice. “You are sorry. I bet you are sorry for yourself. Look at you! What a sorry sight! A sorry little body full of scratches. What happened to you, Anakil? What happened to your arm? You ran away, and it didn’t turn out to be a fun trip, after all? Poor Anakil!”

“I am sorry for…,” Anakil started.

“Don’t speak!” Darin moved both hands, and for a moment Anakil was afraid he would strike him. But the Lieutenant did not touch him, folding his hands behind his back to keep them from grabbing the youth, shaking him. “It is my turn to speak now!” His voice grew louder again, and Anakil was glad he did not have to hear the dangerous whisper any more. “You took Lieutenant Mablung’s message. Fine! You stole a horse and a shirt. Fine! You left your post and disappeared into Ithilien. Not fine!

“I can somehow understand that you were bored and jumped at the opportunity Mablung presented to you. I can understand that you needed a horse and a shirt to do so. I remember you asking for warrior’s training every month. I did not need to look up the date, every time you came to my tent, I knew it had to be the first of the new month. You want to be a warrior, I can understand that, too, and I cannot hold it against you. I would have laughed at you, if you had been wise enough to end this little adventure of yours at the guards’ station. But I cannot and will not understand or even tolerate you leaving your post.”

Darin’s right hand shot out from behind his back and grabbed the boy’s ear, twisting it painfully. Anakil turned his head and screwed up his face, but no sound escaped his lips.

“Why, Anakil?” The Lieutenant was shouting now. “Why did you leave? I don’t want an excuse, I want an answer. Why?”

A lot of excuses came to Anakil’s mind, most of them stupid, none of them good enough to present them to the Lieutenant. He tried to ignore the pain in his left ear. Tears welled up in his eyes, ready to spill on his cheeks, but he could hold the wetness in check – for now. “I don’t have an answer, except that I am sorry, Lieutenant,” he breathed, tilting his head in a futile attempt to escape the Lieutenant’s grip.

“Bad answer!”

The Lieutenant’s left hand fell on the boys naked right shoulder, pressing so hard Anakil feared his collarbone would break any moment. His wounded upper arm throbbed with sudden pain, and Anakil could no longer prevent the tears from spilling onto his cheeks. His nose started running, but still he did not utter a sound of pain.

“Does it hurt?” Darin twisted his hand at Anakil’s ear a little more, and the boy was sure that with the next movement, the Lieutenant would have separated the ear from his head. “You know, we are at war, and war hurts. Nobody likes to get hurt. And when you leave your post at war, it is not you that get hurt but others. Did you want to hurt your comrades, Anakil?”

“No!” Anakil shouted.

“No? But you did! We are at war. There are rules! You broke the rules, Anakil! You endangered your comrades! You hurt your comrades! You could have killed your comrades! There is no excuse for any harm you inflict on your comrades. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? YOU NEVER EVER LEAVE A COMRADE!”

Anakil winced and tried to nod, but he was unable to move his head. His naked body was trembling with pain and cold. He tried to concentrate on the cool water at his feet and the soothing darkness around him, but the pain was overwhelming. His cheeks were wet with tears. He pressed his lips shut. He did not want to scream. Whatever the Lieutenant planned to do to him, he did not want to scream.

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see the guard near the torch, the open book on his lap, but he wasn’t reading any more. There was no pity in the man’s eyes, and Anakil knew that deserters were most despised among the company. He could not expect pity from anyone. He wanted to shout that he had saved a man’s life and therefore deserved some respect, but this was not the right moment for arguments. They could and would talk about it when the Lieutenant had calmed down.

Lieutenant Darin suddenly let go of his ear and slapped him twice across the face, hard. Anakil’s cheeks burned from the forceful strikes, and he felt blood trickle down his chin. He had bitten his lip. His left hand moved to wipe away the blood and cover his throbbing ear.

Darin bent forwards and whispered: “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,”, Anakil whispered back.

Lieutenant Darin pushed away the boy’s hand and grabbed his ear again. “What did you say, deserter? You know what the lads tend to do with deserters, do you?”

“Yes, Lieutenant!” Anakil shouted in the Lieutenant’s face. He felt ready to collapse with exhaustion and pain.

“Darin, we need him in one piece,”, a deep voice said calmly.

The painful grip on Anakil’s shoulder lessened somewhat, and the boy caught a glimpse of Captain Boromir, a towel around his waist, watching them from a distance, his powerful arms folded across his chest. For a moment Anakil hoped the Captain would come to his rescue, but he swiftly dismissed the thought. If the Captain had ever intended to intervene, he would have already done so.

Lieutenant Darin smiled a grim smile. “Captain Boromir,” he said and bowed his head in greeting.

Then he bent forward and whispered in Anakil’s ear: “He only said you are needed in one piece. He didn’t say anything about dead or alive.”

Anakil started to wonder why he had been deathly afraid of the Captain, as it turned out that it would have been wiser to fear the Lieutenant instead.

The Captain vanished from his field of vision, most probably to dress and go to bed.

“Where do you want to sleep tonight?” Lieutenant Darin asked, tightening his grip on the boy’s shoulder once more. “With the boys you left behind? Or should I sent you to Ithilien again, to find a band of Orcs to spend the night with? Maybe you will get lucky again and survive another night in the woods, alone, without your comrades. That’s what you want, isn’t it, Anakil?”

Anakil shook his head. “No. I am sorry for what I did. I really am. I know I was wrong.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Lieutenant Darin laughed out loud. “You shouldn’t be! Rather be afraid of what your comrades will do to you. Let’s go see them!”

The Lieutenant let go of Anakil’s shoulder. Blue black bruises were already showing up from the tight grip. Anakil didn’t have a choice but follow him, for the Lieutenant still had his left ear twisted between his fingers. He stumbled out of the water onto the sandy shore, small stones hurting his bare feet.

“I am not dressed,” the boy protested weakly.

Lieutenant Darin stopped and turned around to look at his charge. “I know. And I don’t care.” He nevertheless bent down to pick up a towel and hand it over to the boy.

Anakil wrapped the soft piece of cloth around his waist, grateful for the warmth and even more grateful to cover at least a part of his body. He had spent an afternoon in his underwear in a cave in Ithilien. He was not eager to walk through Osgiliath wearing nothing at all, even though it was night time and only a few guards were about.

Lieutenant Darin pointed a finger at Anakil’s stitched arm and bruised body. “You have been away, playing warrior, playing hero. Aren’t you proud of your injuries? Don’t you want to show them to everyone?”

They stepped out from the protecting arch of the bridge, and Anakil realized the Lieutenant wasn’t teasing him. He intended to drag him across the bridge to the eastern shore, to the quarters of the boys. He should have presented himself to the eastern healers, feigning great hurt and exhaustion to get their protection for at least this night.

The moon was visible between thick patches of clouds now, and Anakil could see someone standing at the parapet of the bridge, looking down at them as if he had expected them to emerge from under the bridge at this very moment. The moonlight was bright enough to recognize Lieutenant Mablung.

The Ranger wore a broad smile on his face. Obviously he was enjoying the boy’s misery. The boy repressed a heavy sigh. Mablung had promised to slap him later on, and he knew the Ranger’s slaps would not be the worst abuse he would have to endure after Lieutenant Darin was finished with him. The boys could be cruel beyond measure. He had been a fool to fear the Captain.

Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid. – Being a really lucky little bastard. Maybe he had been wrong about that, maybe he wasn’t a lucky little bastard after all!

The broad smile lit up the Ranger’s rugged features, and Anakil realized Mablung had to be much younger than he had guessed him at their first encounters. The boy had never met an Ithilien Ranger he would call a man past his prime.

Mablung waved down at him to get his attention and raised his thumb. Then his head disappeared, leaving Anakil wondering what the gesture was supposed to mean.

Suddenly he heard running footsteps approaching them from behind. Lieutenant Darin stopped and turned around, the boy’s ear still gripped tightly.

Two dark shapes were charging towards them at full speed, their open cloaks fluttering behind them like dark wings. The men were tall and strong, long swords dangled at their sides, and their heavy boots thundered on the ground.

“’Kil!” one of them shouted, and Anakil closed his eyes to hold back tears of relief.

His brothers! He had totally forgotten about his brothers! They must have been sick with worry. Somehow they had heard of his return and had found out where to find him.

“’Rion! ‘Gor!” he shouted back.

Lieutenant Darin let go of the boy’s ear and quickly stepped out of the way as the two soldiers approached them and flung themselves at their little brother.

Anarion reached him first and scooped him up into his arms, laughing. “’Kil! You’re alive!”

Anakil put his head on his brother’s shoulder and locked his arm around his neck as the tall man kissed him on the top of the head and swung him around in a circle before setting him down again.

He felt another pair of arms encircle him from behind, and his feet lost contact with the ground again as his second bother hugged and kissed him as well. He felt safe in their embrace, safe, protected and welcome for the first time since he had arrived at Osgiliath. He shifted a little in Anarion’s embrace to carefully drape his injured right arm about Anagor’s waist.

“You’re alive!” Anarion repeated and tousled his youngest brother’s hair with one hand.

“You were gone. We heard rumours you were dead,” Anagor added.

“I am fine,” Anakil whispered. “Now I am fine.”

The brothers set him down again to take a good look at him.

“Why are you not dressed?” Anarion asked and immediately shrugged out of his cloak to wrap it around his brother’s body.

“You are injured!” Anagor exclaimed at the same time.

Lieutenant Darin loudly cleared his throat, and the soldiers slowly tore their gazes from their brother to stare at him as if they haven’t even noticed him before. Both of them had an arm draped around the boy, and fierce determination settled on their features.

Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid. – Being a really lucky little bastard - maybe.

“Lieutenant Darin,” they acknowledged the Lieutenant with a slight nod of their heads.

“Soldiers, identify yourself,” Darin demanded harshly.

“Anarion, son of Anabar of the Anduin,” Anarion said.

“Anagor, son of Anabar of the Anduin,” Anagor said.

Anakil saw the slight confusion on the Lieutenant’s face and despite his fatigue and pain a smile crept onto his face. Anarion and Anagor appeared exactly alike in the eyes of strangers, and the boy knew Lieutenant Darin would never be able to tell them apart. Anagor’s hair was longer, Anarion’s feet bigger and his smile wider. Anarion’s manner of speaking was soft while Anagor spoke in clipped, short sentences most of the time, but a stranger would never notice those significant differences between the twins.

“Anakil is our brother we thought lost,” Anarion added and tightened his grip around Anakil’s waist. “Request permission to take him to our tent for the night, Lieutenant. We have a lot to talk about.”

Anagor’s arm was draped about his brother’s shoulders, and both soldiers did not leave room for doubt that they would take the boy with them, with the Lieutenant’s permission or without it.

The Lieutenant took a careful look at the soldiers grim faces and the long swords dangling at their sides. He might be the boy’s Lieutenant, but those two soldiers were his family. The bonds of family were stronger than the chain of command. He was willing to accept that tonight, for there was no pressing need to reprimand the boy further just now. It would do no harm to surrender the boy to his brothers’ care. The soldiers would protect their brother tonight, relieved to see him alive and well, and Darin could understand their determination to place themselves between their exhausted brother and himself. “Take him,” he shrugged. “He has suffered enough for one day. He can meet the boys tomorrow.”

Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid. – Being a really lucky little bastard!

Anakil released the breath he had been holding and tightened his arms around his brothers’ waists.

“You are safe for tonight, but don’t think I am finished with you, Anakil.” Lieutenant Darin said grimly. ”We will have a nice long talk soon.“

“Yes, Lieutenant.“ Anakil lowered his gaze. “’Rion, ‘Gor, please, let’s go!” He did not care that his voice sounded pleading. He knew he didn’t have to be strong for his brothers, and he was too exhausted and relieved to care what the Lieutenant might think of him just now. If the Captain held to his decision, he would be a messenger soon, and Lieutenant Darin was not in command of the messengers of Osgiliath.

“Thank you. Good night, Lieutenant.” The soldiers politely bowed their heads to the officer and led their younger brother away to the bridge.

It was past midnight. He had neither slept nor had time to relax since he left Anborn and Darung south of Cair Andros, less than a day ago, but in another lifetime somehow. The day had been long and exhausting, and finally no fear or pain was waiting for him any more. He didn’t have to care for a wounded messenger. He didn’t have to endure harsh questions and hurtful punishment. He didn’t have to stand up straight before a Captain or a Lieutenant, pretending to be stronger than he really was. It was over.

Anakil felt his legs give way beneath him as soon as they had stepped onto the bridge to cross the river. He would have fallen to the ground if his brothers’ arms hadn’t been there to steady him. Exhausted tears were dripping from his eyes now, and he wiped them away with the back of one hand. He didn’t want to cry like a little boy. All he wanted to do was sleep. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

“Don’t be sorry, ‘Kil,” Anagor said softly. “And thank Lieutenant Mablung for leading us to you.”

“Mablung?” Anakil remembered the Ranger’s smiling face and the raised thumb, and now he understood.

“Whatever you have done, and we have already heard a lot about what that might be on our way here, we can talk about it when you have rested.” Anarion placed one arm under the boy’s knees, the other around his back and lifted him up.

“You don’t have to carry me, ‘Rion,” Anakil protested weakly, but nevertheless he locked his arms around his brother’s neck.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. “

“Obstinate boy.” Anakil felt Anagor’s tousle his hair as the brothers slowly walked over the bridge.

He rested his head against Anarion’s shoulder. His eyes closed and refused to open again, and he decided that he did not want to fight any more tonight. He allowed sleep to come and embraced the silence.

The sun was rising over Osgiliath as Mablung looked down at the boy, curled up in his elder brother’s cot in the small tent, sleeping peacefully. His dark head was pillowed on his left arm, his right arm dangled over the edge of the cot, the fingertips touching the ground. His brothers had left the tent before daybreak to report to duty.

“Thank you for Beldil, lad” the Ranger whispered, careful to not disturb the sleeping youth. “Goodbye, troublemaking horse boy. And good luck with Darin.”

The boy moved in his sleep, and his dangling arm swayed back and forth.

“Lucky little bastard.” Mablung smiled. “We will meet again, I suppose.” He turned on his heels and left the tent to lead his company of Rangers back to Henneth Annûn.

  



	11. The Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

_“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)_

XI

The sun filtered through the open entrance of the big tent. By the sounds of active life and the smell of food, Beldil guessed it to be around midday. His stomach rumbled in response to the smell, and his mouth was dry. He slowly opened his eyes to discover that there were twelve cots in the tent, all of them empty except his. His dirty clothes and boots had been removed, and a set of clean clothes had been laid upon a wooden chair next to his cot. He moved a hand to touch his body under the light blanket. He still wore the clothes Damrod had given him after the bath, a simple shirt and breeches. His feet were bare, and he scratched the sole of his left foot with his right toe.

He felt surprisingly well. The injuries on his arms and legs itched, but there was no troubling pain there any more. His skin and hair felt clean for the first time in over a week. He decided that he owed Damrod a bottle of brandy, should he get his hands on one before he met the Ranger again.

“Hello?” he croaked, to test his voice and maybe get someone’s attention. “Anybody here? I’m awake.”

His voice was no loader than a breathed whisper, but a dark haired head immediately peered into the tent from the outside. “Are you awake?” a young breaking voice asked, and for a second Beldil thought it to be Anakil.

“Troublemaker?” he whispered.

The boy stepped into the tent, and Beldil saw he had been wrong. The boy was about Anakil’s age, but he was a lot taller and stronger, and he wore the simple clothes of the healers. Beldil realized it had to be one of the aides.

“How are you feeling this morning?” the boy asked.

“Could I get some water, please?” Beldil croaked. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt as if he had dipped it into fine sand.

“Of course.” The boy disappeared and returned a minute later with a small water skin. “Are you able to sit up?” he asked, while he knelt down besides the cot. “Don’t be ashamed if you are too weak. Save your strength to heal your body.”

Beldil raised his head, but when he started to lift his upper body from the soft mattress, his muscles started to tremble in protest. He closed his eyes to avoid the nauseating dizziness, and his face twisted into a mask of exhaustion. The boy’s left arm reached across his shoulders to steady him, and Beldil gratefully accepted the assistance.

“Take it easy, Beldil,” the boy said. “I will be in deep trouble, should anything happen to you. You don’t want to get me into trouble, will you?” The boy brought the water skin to the messenger’s lips and allowed him to drink small sips. “You have been asleep for almost twelve hours. Give your body some time to wake up. If you take it easy, you will be on your feet in no time, and I won’t be in trouble. Do we have a deal?”

Beldil nodded slowly. “What kind of trouble?” he asked. His voice was stronger, now that his tongue was no longer a dry obstacle in his mouth.

“I had a little talk with your Ranger friends. You know, Lieutenant Mablung and the other fellow that bathed you during the night. They left in the morning with all those Rangers, and they told me to take good care of you, otherwise I’d be in big trouble.” The boy smiled. “They looked to me like men who live up to their words.”

“They are.” Beldil smiled in return and continued to drink slowly.

“The healers will take a look at you later on. They are all on the bridge for lunch, for you are the only wounded we have in our care this midday, and you were asleep and in no danger.”

“I feel quite well. Well enough to be hungry. Would it be possible to get some lunch as well?” Beldil’s stomach rumbled again.

The boy smiled and carefully settled the messenger’s upper body back onto the mattress. “The healers have to decide what kind of food you’ll be allowed to eat today. You’ll have to wait for their return.”

“I will survive.” The messenger wiggled his toes again, for he was sure he could move them without causing himself any discomfort. “How is Anakil?” he asked.

The boy’s friendly face fell. “I haven’t seen him since his return. I know he brought you here. I know that you most probably are in his debt.” His dark eyed narrowed, and his breaking voice trembled with anger. “But nevertheless I hope that scum is rotting at the bottom of Anduin.”

Beldil contemplated about the boy’s sudden outburst for a moment. The last thing he remembered about Anakil was the boy’s arm around his waist on the back of the ugly horse that had brought them back to Osgiliath. Mablung had taken the boy to see Captain Boromir shortly after their arrival in the ruined city. There had been no opportunity to speak to Captain Faramir in Henneth Annûn, and Beldil did not see a way to speak to Captain Boromir now. He had hoped to be able to help the boy, but he had failed again.

“What did he do to you, young friend?” he asked tentatively.

“The Captain of the Dwarves? He left!” The boy straddled a chair and put his arms on the backrest. His fingers were clenched into tight fists.

Beldil was glad the chair was between himself and the angry youth. He was not in the condition to defend himself except with words, should he accidentally provoke the young aide further. “Did he harm you with his actions?”

“Yes, he did!” The boy cocked his head. “He was one of us. He left. I don’t care if he lives or dies, but he left his work with us. We had to split his duties between us. It was supposed to begin training to become a healer in the middle of this month. My training got postponed because I had to take over Anakil’s duties. I’ve waited long for the opportunity to train. He ruined it for me!” The boy jumped to his feet, too agitated to sit any more. “Lieutenant Darin was furious! The Lieutenant is not the easiest commander to cope with, but those last days, he was definitely worse than I have ever seen him. Life was hell. First he thought that some of us had to have known about Anakil’s leaving, then he was afraid we would take him as a shining example and disappear as well. You know, Beldil, messenger of Gondor, it is not easy to be a boy in the garrison of Osgiliath.”

“I have been a boy myself once,” Beldil said calmly. “I know what you are talking about.”

“You have been a boy!” The boy sat down again. “But you have not been Lieutenant Darin’s boy! You have not been Lieutenant Darin’s boy the last week, while this scum of the garrison was having fun riding in Ithilien. You don’t have to call this coward comrade.”

“Call him whatever you want to, but don’t call him a coward!” Beldil said. He wanted to growl, but his voice was not strong enough.

“I call him a coward because that is the truth! Only a coward disappears without a word!” The boy moved around the chair to stand close to Beldil’s cot. “Why do you speak for him, messenger? Don’t tell me you consider the Captain of the Dwarves a friend? He does not deserve any man’s friendship!”

“Calm down!” Beldil said. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

“You don’t?” The boy’s face was turning red with anger.

“Whoever left you alone with a wounded man obviously didn’t tell you that you have to behave yourself around those who need your help,” a calm voice said from the entrance of the tent. “Maybe that’s the reason they postponed your healer’s training. Did you ever think about that, Irion?”

“The Captain of the Dwarves in the flesh.” The boy turned on his heels. “Welcome back, Anakil.”

“Don’t…,” Beldil started. He didn’t like the fire he had seen in Irion’s eyes before the aide had turned around to face Anakil and cursed his inability to intervene further.

“You don’t have to speak for me, Beldil. I can defend myself alone for once.”

Beldil was surprised by the firmness of Anakil’s hoarse voice and craned his neck to take a look past Irion’s body at the boy at the entrance of the tent.

Anakil was dressed in simple black breeches and a clean white shirt. He appeared well rested and in good spirits, and despite the unpleasant situation his narrow shoulders were squared and his head was raised high. He didn’t carry his injured arm in a sling any more, but the injury appeared to trouble him a least a little bit, for he pressed his right arm against his abdomen as he stepped into the tent. Without the dark cloak, the messenger’s shirt, the bow on his back and the short sword at his belt the boy appeared even smaller than Beldil remembered him to be. Irion towered at least a head over him and was broader and stronger in build. Anakil’s left ear was a little bruised and discoloured, otherwise he seemed to have survived the Captain’s and Lieutenant’s punishment intact.

Beldil was almost startled when he looked into the boy’s eyes. While with the Rangers, Anakil’s dark eyes had always been in motion, scanning the surroundings, observing the people around him, taking in everything at once, like a nervous horse whose ears twitched to hear its master’s voice and the noises of nature at the same time. Now the dark eyes were perfectly motionless, fixed on Irion’s face with an intense stare. Small and unarmed as he was, the boy appeared older, more experienced, more at ease with himself than Beldil had ever seen him before.

The messenger needed a moment to realize that this environment, foreign to him as he did not belong to this company, was familiar ground for Anakil. The boy did not have to scan the surroundings and closely observe the people he dealt with, for this was his home. He knew the place and the people that lived here and was able to concentrate on more important things. Anakil was not insecure about what to do, for he did not face the grown up strangers of Henneth Annûn or powerful officers of the realm, but a boy he obviously knew well.

“Good morning, Beldil,” Anakil said, his eyes never leaving Irion’s face. “How do you feel this midday?”

“Well enough,” Beldil replied.

Irion crossed his arms across his chest. “And you look too well for someone who, if I pretend to believe some of the rumours, killed an Orc and a Southron and crossed North Ithilien on the back of an old working horse.” Beldil still didn’t like the tone of Irion’s voice.

“I know there are a lot of rumours circulating in the company.” Anakil stepped forward until he stood at the foot of Beldil’s cot. “As it is with rumours, most of them are not true, of course. Therefore you don’t know what I did and didn’t do, but nevertheless you called me a coward. You called me unworthy of someone’s friendship. Prove your words, Irion.” Beldil did not like the tone of Anakil’s voice either. This wasn’t the frightened, exhausted boy he had got to know in the wilderness of Ithilien, this was a young soldier of Osgiliath defending his honour.

“You ran away,” Irion said, his words cold and emotionless. “You left your post.”

“I cannot deny that.” Beldil heard a slight tremble in Anakil’s voice. The boy was not as sure of himself as he liked to appear. Leaving a post was a severe offence against every known rule in the army. Whatever good had eventually come out of this deed in the end, the boy could neither deny nor excuse this wrong.

“Only cowards leave their posts. You just admitted that the rumours are not true. I bet that counts for those rumours that lift you up to be a hero.”

“Maybe most rumours are not true. Maybe some are. You are not the right person to judge me.” Anakil’s voice was steady again. He tucked his left hand into the pocket of his breeches.

“And before you mention it, I already met Lieutenant Darin’s wrath.” He cocked his head and rubbed his left ear with his shoulder.

“I can see that.” Irion uttered a short, bellowing laugh. “I recognize his handwriting on your ear. Tell me, Anakil, what did he do to you? I bet he didn’t take you in his arms like a lost son. Did he shout at you? Strike you? Hurt you? Have you been afraid, little coward?”

“Don’t call me a coward. I usually don’t care what you and the others call me behind my back, but I will not tolerate the word coward. Not any more!”

“Peace, Anakil,” Beldil said. “There is no need to quarrel. Let the matter rest for now.”

“No, I won’t. I have to admit I bow to the Captain, for I am more than a little terrified and in awe of his position. I am wise enough to bow to the Lieutenant, especially when he is angry.” Anakil pulled his hand out of his pocket and pointed at Irion. “But I don’t bow to him! He might be taller and stronger than me, but nevertheless he is my equal. If I don’t stand my ground before him, you can rightfully call me a coward.”

“I heard you spent the night at your brothers’ tent,” Irion said. “You hid behind your big brothers. You always look up to them as if they were the Captain himself.”

Anakil lowered his head, covered the distance between himself and Irion with three quick steps and slammed himself headfirst into Irion’s abdomen. He was smaller and more slender than Irion, but he was faster and had the moment of surprise on his side. Irion dropped ungracefully onto his backside and stifled a yelp of pain and surprise.

“Look who’s looking up at me now,” Anakil said grimly and straightened his back.

“Anakil!” Beldil said. “This is a place of the injured. Don’t fight.”

“He is injured now, look at his pain stricken face.” Anakil said. “I don’t intend to fight any more. And I apologize that you had to be witness of this unpleasant exchange. It is over now.”

Beldil remembered a time long ago, when he had been a boy in the army. All boys had stuck together when they had deemed it necessary to unite their forces, but most of the time they had quarrelled about trivialities, trying to prove their superiority, trying to be more grown up than others, oblivious of the fact that every unnecessary fight had proven once more that they had still been boys who did not know when to stop. Nothing had changed between the young boys of the army.

Irion scrambled to his feet and moved forwards, preparing to strike back. He was not ready to accept the defeat. Anakil crouched to block the expected blow, but suddenly Irion stopped dead in his movement and lowered his raised fist.

Anakil turned his head to see what had startled the other boy. He immediately straightened and clasped both arms behind his back. Beldil had to raise his head from his pillow to see what had ended the fight.

Two large forms filled the entrance of the tent. Beldil recognized Captain Boromir immediately. The second man, a heavy soldier with the insignia of a Lieutenant, was a stranger to him, but he guessed that it could only be Lieutenant Darin.

“Irion! Anakil!” The Lieutenant bellowed. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Lieutenant,” Anakil said and bowed his head. “Captain.” The boy stepped back to stand next to Irion, their quarrel forgotten.

Irion mirrored Anakil’s position, his hand clasped behind his back, his back straight, his gaze directed towards the floor. “Lieutenant Darin. Captain Boromir,” he said as well.

Beldil eased his head back onto the pillow. The two boys who had been at each other’s throat a moment ago slowly shifted their positions to stand as close together as possible. The messenger had to repress an amused chuckle.

“Irion,” Captain Boromir said. “I think you are needed elsewhere.”

“Yes, my lord Captain!” The boy closed his eyes in relief and bowed deeply. “Captain. Lieutenant.” He crossed the tent with measured steps, squeezed himself past the Captain’s broad frame through the entrance of the tent and disappeared. As soon as he was out of sight, his slow steps quickened into a fast run, as if he was afraid the Captain might change his mind and call him back.

Anakil’s gaze followed his retreating comrade. Beldil didn’t need to be able to read minds to know the boy wished to be dismissed as well. His casual bearing was gone, for now he was not dealing with another boy but with those two officers who had been his worst nightmares in the last twenty-four hours.

“Anakil, how is your ear?” Lieutenant Darin asked, and even though there was no concern in the officer’s voice, the question was almost friendly.

“Better than my shoulder, my lord,” the boy replied.

Beldil had not noticed any injury to the boy’s shoulders. Anakil’s shoulders had been fine when they had seen each other last evening. The boy must have been punished severely by his superior.

“The healer will take a look at your shoulder later on,” Lieutenant Darin said. “I had a long conversation with the Captain about you this morning.” The Lieutenant paused to give his superior the chance to speak, but Captain Boromir remained silent. “You are to be transferred,” the Lieutenant continued. “Follow me. We have to talk.”

Anakil glanced at Beldil for a moment, his lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes troubled. Beldil felt sorry for the boy who did not have the self-confidence to defend himself before his superiors, as he had just done before his comrade. He smiled at him, and Anakil forced himself to smile back.

The gesture turned into a grimace. “I will come and visit you later, Beldil,” the boy croaked.

“Of course.” Beldil nodded reassuringly.

Anakil bowed before the Captain, who stood silent like a statue at the entrance of the tent, both hands behind his back. “My lord Captain.”

“Let’s go, Troublemaker.” Lieutenant Darin took the boy’s right shoulder carefully, as if the slightest touch would hurt the boy, and guided him out of the tent.

“My lord Captain,” Beldil started. “About the boy…”

“Don’t worry about the boy,” Captain Boromir interrupted and his unreadable features lit up with a small smile. “He has received severe and sufficient punishment yesterday. There is no need to reprimand him further. Darin will ensure that the boys keep their hands off him.”

The Captain stepped inside the tent and sat down on the chair that Irion had left close to Beldil’s cot. “Do you feel well enough to answer a few questions?”

Beldil’s stomach rumbled, and the messenger smiled. “I will do anything that earns me a good lunch, my lord.”

“If you can think of food already, you cannot feel so bad, soldier.” The Captain folded his hands in his lap. “Tell me of Ithilien,” he said. “You are one of few who have travelled that land and still draw breath. What have you seen?”

Anakil was afraid that things had just started to go downhill – fast.

He had woken in his brothers’ tent after a long and untroubled slumber. Mercifully, there had been no nightmares this night, and he had felt strong enough to face whatever the day had in store for him. His brothers had left clean clothes and boots on a chair, and after he had dressed and stolen a small breakfast from Anagor’s secret supply of bread and dried ham, he had set out to find Beldil.

Without the messenger’s shirt and his weapons, nobody had paid attention to the small boy making his way through the garrison on the eastern shore of the Anduin. Anakil had relished the anonymity of being a boy nobody noticed, for he could easily listen to conversations and therefore catch up on rumours and news. He was glad that most soldiers didn’t connect his face to the name Anakil, for most rumours dealt with him.

Some soldiers talked about him in awe, calling him a hero, for he had been one of the very few scouts that had spent time in Ithilien and returned unscathed. Others considered him a traitor, speculating that he might be an orcish spy. People claimed to know he had killed nine Orcs with his bare hands, others said he was the son of a Southron. Anakil had always known that rumours tended to exaggerate and twist the truth, but he had never really cared about that until now. He did not like people that did not know him at all talking about him in this fashion. He wanted to be neither hero nor orcish spy. For a moment he desperately wished to be Anakil the simple errand runner again; a small boy nobody ever noticed. But somehow he knew that Anakil the simple horse boy had died in Ithilien at the very moment he had killed that Orc. If the horse boy had died with that Orc, who had been born on this day? He was not sure about that, but he was planning to get to know the boy Ithilien had turned him into as fast as possible.

His plan had been to visit Beldil, get his things from the boys’ quarters while the other boys were at lunch and report to the healers of the eastern shore to get an official evaluation of his injuries and either a certificate that he was not fit for duty or a restriction to light duty only. Light duty meant he did not have to clean the stables, and since his right arm was injured and nobody would trust him with scissors in his left hand, he wouldn’t even be able to work as a barber.

Lieutenant Darin had warned him that he was not finished with him yet, but after a good night’s sleep and a meal the boy was sure that if he had survived the first encounter with the Lieutenant with minor injuries only, he would survive the second encounter as well.

He had not planned to get caught by the Captain and the Lieutenant in a fistfight with Irion in front of a wounded messenger in the healers’ tent. Therefore he was not so sure about his survival any more, as he obediently followed the Lieutenant out of the neutral ground of Beldil’s tent into the lively garrison.

“Do you have anything to say?” Lieutenant Darin asked. He walked with long strides between the soldier’s tents.

Anakil had to jog to keep up with him. “I am sorry,” he said. It sounded more like a question than like an apology.

“I believe you mentioned that yesterday.”

“Does it help if I am still sorry, Lieutenant?” Anakil raised his left hand to scratch his neck, partly because his neck itched and partly to protect his left ear. “I mean, I am sorry I left. And I am sorry that I almost got engaged in a fistfight with Irion in the healers’ tent.”

“You are a lucky little bastard, Anakil.” Lieutenant Darin stopped next to the ruin of an ancient house and turned around to face the boy.

Anakil stopped as well. “I know.” A liar. A thief. A deserter. A lucky little bastard. He had given all those titles to himself the previous night.

Lieutenant Darin made his way into the yard of the destroyed house. The ruin was beyond repair. A single wall was still standing, the three other walls and the roof had been destroyed beyond recognition, leaving a vast heap of rubble and debris that could not be of any use to the company. Grass and small plants grew between the fallen stones. Moss covered the bigger fragments like a green carpet. A statue stood still erect in the middle of the yard. Fallen stones had severed the head, one arm and one leg from the torso, but the stubborn statue refused to crumble entirely, standing defiantly on one leg, the intact arm pointing to the east. A bird had built its nest where the head had once been. It was too close to midsummer, the nest was empty now, but it sat on top of the obstinate statue like a brown crown.

Lieutenant Darin sat down on a moss covered stone next to the statue. Anakil took the hint and lowered himself on another green clad fragment. The moss was dry and surprisingly comfortable, softening the rough, cold surface of the fallen stones. They were in the middle of the eastern part of the garrison, within plain view of everyone who happened to pass by on the road next to the ruin, but nevertheless they were alone and out of earshot.

“I promised we’d have a talk today,” Lieutenant Darin said. “Now let’s talk. And I want to hear more than a simple: I am sorry.”

The Lieutenant had his big hands dangling casually between his strong legs. His face was neither friendly nor furious, so Anakil guessed that he was safe from physical punishment – for now. “Exactly how angry are you with me, my lord?” he dared to ask.

“Be careful, young man,” Darin said. “I am supposed to ask the questions.”

“I am sorry,” Anakil replied. He quickly bit his lips. “Oh, you didn’t want to hear this any more, I know. I am sorry I said that.” He stopped talking before he could get himself deeper into trouble.

“Anakil,” Lieutenant Darin started. Anakil recognized the voice he was using. It was the voice that was reserved for frightened and injured horses. “I think I know what troubles you.”

Anakil had never seen the Lieutenant this calm while talking to one of his boys. Normally he shouted or used brisk, short orders. The boy was surprised by the patience that shone through the Lieutenant’s careful words. It made him appear almost human. Lieutenant Darin had never been human before.

“If it helps, let’s talk about last night first. Even though there is no excuse for what you did, what I did…”

“I deserved what you did, my lord,” Anakil interrupted. “I know that now. I deserved what you did and I would have deserved you dragging me into the boys’ quarters. You were furious, and you had every right to be so.” He did not summon up the courage to meet the Lieutenant’s gaze. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I am really sorry, my lord.”

“Yes, you deserved everything I did to you. You broke our most important rule. Under other circumstances you would have been thrown out of the army immediately – after the boys had had a little fun with you. But just because you deserved what I did, and just because I was furious, doesn’t mean I had the right to do what I did.”

Anakil slowly raised his gaze.

“I should have talked to you first. I didn’t do that. Therefore I have to apologize as well. Don’t get me wrong, Anakil. I am not sorry that I slapped you and twisted your ear and squeezed your shoulder. I am sorry that I based my punishment on rumours and assumptions. I lost it down there in the darkness at the river. That should not have happened. For that I apologize.”

“Things happen.” Anakil carefully rubbed his injured ear. “And what now, my lord?”

Lieutenant Darin smiled. It was an almost friendly smile. Then his voice regained his normal brisk tone. “As I mentioned before, you are a lucky little bastard. You have made some very persuasive friends. I had a long conversation with Captain Boromir this morning. He told me that you have been punished enough already. You are transferred from the errand runners to the messengers, effective immediately. As frustrating as this is for me, I have to obey his orders. Therefore you can be sure that neither I nor one of the boys or soldiers will lay hands on you. A bruised ear and shoulder are a small price for what you did, Anakil. I hope you keep that in mind. Can we talk now?”

Anakil closed his eyes in relief. A lucky little bastard indeed! He squared his shoulders and started to give an account of everything he had seen and done since he left Osgiliath with Mablung’s message.

Ithilien was falling.

Faramir had known it for years. Boromir had known it as well, but he had tried to push this knowledge away for a long time. He could no longer deny it now. Even Beldil, a simple messenger of the Northern Rangers, knew the truth.

But this simple messenger still had hope, still fought with all the strength that was given to him. Ithilien might be weakening under the growing onslaught of the enemy, but hope was still strong in the hearts of Gondor’s soldiers.

A simple boy had crossed Ithilien on the back of a working horse. A simple messenger had slain eight Orcs. The Rangers of North Ithilien were still safe in their cave, hidden away from the enemy. A single healer did his duty in Henneth Annûn, and he accomplished more than three of his kind in Minas Tirith.

Gondor was still strong. Gondor had neither lost hope nor heart.

But nevertheless Ithilien was falling.

He could see it in the face of the injured messenger. He could hear it in the messenger’s young voice, weakened by injuries but strong enough to tell him about long days and nights in the Ithilien woods; breaking when talking about the death of a comrade; laughing at the memory of a small boy’s ugly horse; thoughtful when pondering the increasing number and strength of the enemy’s scouts.

Osgiliath had noticed the sudden increase of scouts as well. The enemy was moving. Unfortunately nobody had yet discovered what the purpose behind those movements might be.

The movements themselves were bad enough. More men died on scouting missions. Messengers like Beldil returned injured or not at all. The watches had to be doubled on dark nights.

The Lords in Minas Tirith knew about the movements of the enemy, but the council had not come up with a decision on what should be done about it. Boromir believed he could predict the outcome of days of hot discussion in the council chambers. Ithilien should solve the problem. The Ithilien company, small in number but strong in will, had always held up the hope that not everything was lost.

But Ithilien was falling.

Boromir had talked with Lieutenant Mablung about the situation of the Ithilien company, and now the messenger Beldil had confirmed the Lieutenant’s word. An ill supplied, weakening company could not live up to the expectations placed on them by the council of Minas Tirith. Boromir longed to talk to his brother, longed to see that Faramir was well, but as long as nobody found a pattern in the enemy’s increased movements, neither he nor his brother could leave their respective commands.

There were too many possibilities. The human population had left Ithilien years ago. The land between Ephel Dúath and the Anduin, once the beautiful garden of Gondor, was empty now. Nevertheless Ithilien was of great strategic value, the last stronghold protecting the lands of Gondor west of the Anduin.

Maybe the enemy planned to launch a major assault on Ithilien in general. Or he planned to attack the garrison at Cair Andros, to cross the Anduin in the North and march towards Minas Tirith. Maybe he even planned an attack on Osgiliath, to take the fords and directly reach the heart of Gondor. Or he just wanted to wear down Gondor’s strength by small but deadly battles. There were too many possibilities. All of them were logical enough to be considered. None of them left room for movement, and certainly none of them allowed the Captains of Gondor to meet just because they were brothers and longed to see and talk to each other.

Boromir had spent the night penning a letter to his brother. It had turned out to be the longest letter he had ever written in his life. He listed all tactical possibilities in as much detail as he could think of. He had never been good at writing down his thoughts, but he knew that Faramir would understand him. Maybe, between themselves and their very different commands, they would come up with a solution about what the enemy was up to.

They were both soldiers of Gondor, after all. Soldiers that felt hope and fear like every other soldier in Gondor’s army. Soldiers like the wounded messenger Beldil, who had, after he had finished his report, tentatively asked about the boy, Anakil, that had saved his life. Gondor would remain strong, as long as her soldiers did not stop caring about the land and about each other.

He had left Beldil in the healers’ care to catch up on his duties in the garrison. He knew the soldiers drew strength from his presence, and therefore he slowly walked across the bridge to the western quay to check on a ship with provisions that was expected for today. His heavy boots thundered on the wood of the bridge.

This bridge was like the defence of Gondor. It might have been broken in the past, but the broken parts had been mended, and now it was strong and reliable again.

Anakil was glad Lieutenant Darin accompanied him when he entered the boys’ quarters to get his few personal things. Most of the boys were not present, but the few who had sought out their cots to find some rest from the heat of the day glared at him with angry eyes. None of them spoke a word, and Anakil knew he owed this silence to Lieutenant Darin’s presence. Without the Lieutenant, he wouldn’t have been able to enter the boys’ quarters and leave again without a scratch. He vowed to himself that he would never enter those quarters again.

He was not a mere boy any more. Anakil the horse boy had died together with that Orc, or maybe, he admitted grimly, a little later, after he had emptied his stomach onto the ground of Ithilien. Now there would only be Anakil, the messenger, a soldier of Gondor.

He would not miss the boys of Osgiliath. There were few among them he called friends. Most of them had always teased him and laughed at him, he had never really been one of them. He had always been different.

Suddenly he missed the Rangers with their easy companionship and roaring laughter. He had been there for only a few days, but somehow they had naturally taken him in as a small part of their company.

Anakil smiled in memory of a certain Ranger. Anborn was driven by fierce loyalty to his Captain, his comrades and his land. He would never have lost it like Lieutenant Darin at the river. Anakil missed the deep voice, the rumbling laughter, the heavy boot on his shoulder, the lopsided smile. The Ranger had been hard on him only because he cared. It had taken the boy too long to realize that Anborn had never hated him but had always tried to protect him from the rough reality of Ithilien. Nobody had ever cared much about him before. He sincerely hoped to see the Ranger again to thank him for everything he had done.

Lieutenant Darin accompanied him through the rows of tents of the eastern garrison to the stables. Some of the boys were working there, and Anakil was glad that he didn’t have to join them, even though he was sure he would miss being with the horses from time to time.

The boy could hear the whinnying of a horse from the inside of the big stone house, its broken walls mended with sturdy wooden planks to withstand furious and frightened horses that tried to get out. He remembered his first night in the company. He had been too homesick to sleep and had crept out of the boy’s quarters to the stables. His father had sold a lot of horses to the army over the years, and he had hoped to find one of them and curl up beside it, to feel the illusion of being at home, being safe, and therefore be able to sleep.

One of the junior officers had mistaken him for the boy on duty and had ordered him to ready two horses, one for the Captain and one for one of the messengers. Too frightened to object, Anakil had done what he had been ordered to do. He had not known the Captain’s horse back then, so he had readied the best steed in the stable and a fast mare for the messenger.

He clearly remembered standing in front of the stables, the reins of one horse in each hand, waiting for the Captain and the messenger to arrive. The steed had danced nervously, while the mare had constantly moved to avoid his flying hooves, and the boy had been caught in the middle of them. To avoid the heavy hooves and angry teeth, he had finally mounted the steed and galloped him around the stable to calm him down, leading the mare on long reins behind him. He remembered feeling like a soldier in this moment, a soldier ready to enter battle on his loyal mount, ready to slay the enemies of Gondor and bring glory to himself and his family, even though he had only been a boy of just fifteen in his nightshirt and old breeches on the Captain’s horse.

He had not seen the Captain that night, for the messenger had arrived alone and had taken both horses with him. Maybe, just maybe, one of the boys would do the same for him soon, when he was a real messenger. Maybe even tall Irion would be called out in the middle of the night to ready a horse, for a messenger had to be sent to the city with urgent news. Maybe that messenger would be him.

A heavy hand fell on his right shoulder, and he winced as hot pain shot trough his body. He snapped out of his memories. “Yes, my lord?” he croaked.

Many horses were now whinnying inside the stables. Anakil felt the urge to go inside and calm them, but that was not his job any more. He contemplated whistling to calm those horses that had grown up on his father’s farm, but his face was distorted with pain. He was not sure he was able to whistle properly.

“I have to go in there to know what is going on,” Lieutenant Darin said. “Report to the messengers’ tent. You are expected. When the messengers are done with you for today, report to the healers. You are released from my command.”

The heavy hand was still on his shoulder, pressing firmly, but the pain had become bearable. “Yes, my lord,” Anakil said.

“There is one thing I want you to know,” Darin said and put his other hand on Anakil’s left shoulder. “You have had enough luck for a lifetime this last week. Without the Captain’s intervention, you would be in there…” He pointed to the stables. “…alone, for at least a month. And you would have more to worry about than your ear, your arm and your shoulder. If you disappear or disobey again, I will thrash you within an inch of your life, even if I am no longer your commander. Is that clear?” His eyes were aflame, his red nose shining even redder in the midday sun.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Now go!” The Lieutenant took his hands off the boy’s shoulders. “And even though you don’t deserve it, I wish you luck.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Anakil carefully rubbed his right shoulder as he trotted away. His whole right arm was numb with pain, and he realized he would not been able to wield a sword or a bow for a few days.

He heard the Lieutenant walk away, cursing under his breath. He was sure he would never talk to Lieutenant Darin again. Suddenly there was a question in his mind. It didn’t make sense at all. He was sure he would have never dreamt of asking the Lieutenant such a personal question while under his command, but he really wanted to know. He longed for something to remember Lieutenant Darin by, his first commander in the army; something that wasn’t connected to war and pain. He wasn’t Darin’s boy any more, and if he didn’t ask now, he would never get a second chance.

He followed the Lieutenant with quick strides. “Lieutenant Darin!” he called.

The Lieutenant stopped and turned around. “What is it, Troublemaker?”

Anakil rubbed one hand over his face to get some time and summon the courage to speak. “What would you do if you could just go home?” the boy asked. “I mean, if the war was over and we had won. If we did not need so many soldiers any more. What would you do?”

Lieutenant Darin’s eyes widened. He had been prepared for a lot, but obviously not for this. “I would return to the mountains, where I was born,” he said briskly. “My wife and my two small sons are waiting for me there.” Then he continued on his way to the stables.

Anakil tried to picture the Lieutenant as father of two children and smiled to himself. It was a good picture, a good memory. He wished he had realized earlier that the Lieutenant was a human being like anybody else.

The messengers’ tent was close to the stables. Anakil took a deep breath before lifting the tent flap and stepping inside.

He had been to the messengers’ tent when he had stolen the shirt to disappear with Mablung’s message, but he had not taken the time to take a look around. There was a big table in the middle of the tent, cluttered with books and papers and everything needed to write and seal a letter. Six chairs surrounded the table; most of them looked rather old and unreliable. One chair’s leg was placed upon a thick book to steady it. On the left side there were shelves of different heights and strengths, filled with shirts, breeches, saddlebags and other useful things. Eight cots stood close to each other at the back of the tent. Four of them seemed to have been in use last night. The sheets were rumpled, but there was nobody sleeping in there just now.

Anakil tightened his grip on the small bag with his personal belongings he had slung over his good shoulder. “Hello?” he asked.

“Who hails?” a voice boomed in response.

Anakil had not noticed anyone in the tent and was startled by the loud and immediate response.

“Greetings, my famous young friend.” A grey head peered around one of the shelves. “Welcome to the humble chamber of the written word!”


	12. The poet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

  
  
XII

  
“Those reports are older than two days. They are useless!” Boromir balled his left hand into a fist in frustration. “Everything changes in two days.”

“They are the best we have, Captain.”

“I know.” Boromir sighed softly and relaxed his hand. “But we need better information. The enemy is moving fast. We will lose track entirely if we continue to be two days behind.”

“We are lucky it is only two days. It could be worse.”

The council tent of Osgiliath was lit by many small lamps and torches. The commanding officers of the garrison sat in simple chairs around the large wooden table. Only the two officers on duty at the shore watches were absent.

Boromir let his gaze wander from face to face, carefully looking at each of his Lieutenants in turn. He did not like the concern and weariness furrowing their brows, tightening their mouths, narrowing their eyes. He knew their faces mirrored the one he saw when looking into a mirror. His officers knew as well as he did that something was stirring east of the Ephel Dúath, something without a face yet, but maybe of a name that was not spoken aloud in Gondor.

The heavy table was partly covered with a large map of Ithilien. Small green, red and blue arrows marked the reported positions of the enemy, green for orcs, red for Southrons, blue for unidentified parties. There were some white arrows as well, along the river and scattered throughout Ithilien; the positions of Gondor’s soldiers. Only the positions of the white arrows were confirmed, and there were frighteningly few of them. The enemy was moving, back and forth, in circles and in lines, seemingly without a discernable pattern.

Scouts that had contact with the enemy were usually gone for four days. It took them two days to reach good positions, or to follow a sighted party of the enemy to discover a pattern in movement, to count the numbers and to judge the strength of defence or offence. If they returned, most of them reached Osgiliath within two days after abandoning the enemy. If they returned... Some of them left the garrison and were never seen again.

Two days was too long a time to work with, but the Lieutenants were right, this was the best they had. They could not send mounted scouts into Ithilien, for they had not enough horses and could not afford to lose even one of the animals. In addition to that, mounted scouts would be easier to spot and therefore even more in peril of being ambushed than scouts travelling by foot.

They could not rely on the Ithilien company either. It was a one day ride or two days march to the main hideout in North Ithilien, even farther to South Ithilien. The Ithilien Rangers assembled enough information to get along themselves, but they could not share their daily reports of the enemy’s movements with Osgiliath.

But the Lieutenants were right again. It could be a lot worse.

Boromir finished the observation of his men, fixing his gaze on Lieutenant Darin. The Lieutenant did not notice that his Captain’s attention was turned towards him; he was staring at his hands that lay folded on the table. “I talked to Beldil, the messenger that arrived here from Henneth Annûn yesterday. He saw nothing of the enemy during his journey along the river. He could only confirm Mablung’s general words about Ithilien.”

“What about the boy?” the commander of the healers asked.

Lieutenant Darin quickly raised his head. “Anakil caused nothing but trouble, Captain,” he said.

“He returned,” Boromir answered. “On horseback. With a wounded comrade. The men will remember that, maybe even longer than three weeks. But that does not solve the problems we face.” Boromir smiled grimly. He had expected the question and the Lieutenant’s reaction. “The boy showed that it is possible to pass though Ithilien unscathed, but was lucky. The men will talk about him for a while. But the talk will die down eventually, and nobody will remember his name three weeks from now.”

“We could double the scouts.”

Boromir leaned back in his chair to simply listen to the discussion. His men knew they could speak their thoughts freely in his presence. He wanted to hear everything that was in their minds. Maybe together they could come up with a solution nobody would figure out alone.

“We don’t have enough men to do that.”

He had requested additional scouts from the garrison of Cair Andros to cover his losses. Cair Andros had not been able to send a single soldier.

“We could send pairs of two.”

When he had been a simple young soldier in the army, they had scouted in groups of three. Those times were long past. The garrison would be empty and undefended if they still sent out groups to do scouting work.

“We don’t have enough men to do that, either.”

He didn’t even think about asking for scouts from Ithilien. Faramir did hardly have enough men in North Ithilien to guard Henneth Annûn. There hadn’t been a message from South Ithilien for almost two weeks. South Ithilien couldn’t even spare a regular messenger. Boromir knew that the Northern and Southern Rangers had secret hiding places near the Ephel Dúath where they met or left messages concerning the enemy. Sometimes Faramir included some information about South Ithilien in one of his infrequent letters, but none of the Northern Rangers had been to the South for a long time.

“We need to extend our patrols to meet the Ithilien Rangers and exchange information.”

He would love to work more closely with the Rangers, but that had been tried before, and it had resulted in the death of many. The distance between Osgiliath and the Rangers’ hideouts was simply too great for close cooperation.

“That would take even longer than two days.”

They had to get more soldiers to guard the bridge over the Anduin, the direct passage into the heart of Gondor. He needed to go to Minas Tirith and inform the Council in person about the situation. The Council had to understand the growing severity of the situation at hand. Maybe he should have gone weeks ago, instead of writing letters.

“We need reinforcements. The men sent to us from the city barely cover our losses.”

Men died every week. The situation worsened with every death. And the enemy was moving. The council of Osgiliath was unanimous concerning that observation.

“Darin, what about the boys? There are so many of them. Some of them must enter weapon’s training.”

Darin snorted, his face grim. “I send the boys into training when they are ready.”

“Then ensure that they are ready soon.”

Lieutenant Darin put both hands flat on the table and rose into a half standing position. “I cannot force them into maturity. They will be ready soon enough.”

“No offence to your judgement, Darin. Sit down.”

Boromir trusted his men to behave themselves. They were officers of Gondor, men not unconcerned with honor. There had never been a fight in the council tent. The men argued, sometimes long and emotionally, but they always attacked with words and gazes, however hard and unyielding, never with physical violence.

“We could send the scouts in shorter intervals if we could find a way to give them more time to rest in between their missions. Scouts that have to take over a watch every second night are of no great use in the woods of Ithilien.”

“We will include all officers in the watch roster,” Boromir said immediately. It was not customary for officers to stand watch. One Lieutenant was supervising each shift, but they did not have to lie down in the dirt, their bows ready at hand. He didn’t care that some of his men would be offended at standing on watch with the soldiers, but he would make sure they did not speak up. The decision was his, and his voice clarified that he was not willing to argue about it. “Starting this night, no scout will be on watch any more. Make sure that I am included in the roster as well.”

“What about the boys? They have eyes as well, and some of them are very able to wield a bow.”

“None of the boys is ready for watch,” Lieutenant Darin protested. “But the Captain is right, all of us are able. I will see to it that the duty rosters are changed.”

“I would like to see the roster as soon as it is finished, Darin.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Boromir thought about the boy Irion he had seen this midday. The boy had been small, his black eyes innocent, his slender body not yet strong enough to wield a long sword. That boy deserved being allowed to be a boy as long as he chose to be. Gondor was still strong. Gondor would not rely on children to fight this war.

Boromir clenched his left hand into a fist again. Officers on watch would bring some relief to the scouts, but they would not solve the problems at hand. He hated being forced to leave his men in times of crisis, but there was no other way. He had to talk to the Lords of the city, convince them to regroup the army, to focus more on the defense of strategic points. “I will go to Minas Tirith at the end of the month,” he said bitterly, by way of pointing out that their search for easy solutions would lead into nowhere. “I will argue our case before the Steward and the Council in person.”

“Why go at the end of the month? Why not immediately?”

Boromir folded his arms across his chest. His voice was hard. The Lieutenants knew their Captain was not looking forward to entering a council chamber, arguing with the Lords about things they had never seen and therefore could not fully grasp. “I will send a message first, announcing my intentions. But it would be foolish to leave shortly after that letter arrives in Minas Tirith. The Lords will not really believe the urgency of my words if I am able and willing to leave my post at any time without being sent for by the Steward. My delay will help to convince them that Osgiliath is in need of every soldier, regardless of officer or boy. I will give them some time to discuss matters between themselves first. Most of them have not been at a garrison for a long time, if at all. Their discussions about how a war has to be fought tire me. Besides, I feel uneasy at the thought of leaving now. The enemy is moving, and if he moves further, I would like to be here.”

“We should send a message to Captain Faramir as well, informing him of your intention, Captain. In his last letter Captain Faramir complained about the same problems we face. Captain Faramir has not left Ithilien for a long time now…”

Boromir rested both hands flat on the table before him to keep his fingers from twitching. The city was a safe haven for him. He could sleep soundly in the sturdy circle of the white walls, for the city was his home. He loved the place with a fierce determination that sometimes surprised him, almost frightened him.

He knew Faramir loved Minas Tirith and all of Gondor as deeply and truly, but he also knew that Faramir’s sleep was troubled in the embrace of the walls. Faramir’s childhood home was Minas Tirith, there was no doubt about that, but his brother had found a second home: Ithilien, the wonderful garden of Gondor. Every visit to the city, every confrontation with the Steward and the Lords, troubled his brother’s mind, and he wanted to spare him this additional burden, for guarding Ithilien was a burden heavy enough to bear. He knew he was trying to protect Faramir, against all odds, speak for him like he had done when they had been little boys, but there was nothing he could and would do about that. Faramir was his little brother, after all…

“I will send word to Faramir when I return. Ithilien cannot spare its commander right now, nor the escort to get him safely to Cair Andros or Osgiliath. Should my efforts be in vain, I will send for him, but not earlier than that.”

“Besides, we don’t have a messenger at hand who would be willing and able to travel Ithilien alone. The Ithilien messenger Beldil is wounded, and the other lads who have been to the northern hideout before are either injured as well, occupied in the city or cannot be spared elsewhere.”

Lieutenant Darin’s face was grim. “The young boy – messenger - Anakil knows the way, but he is wounded, and I would strongly advise you against placing a matter of that importance on his young and inexperienced shoulders.”

“I will not send him, Darin.” Boromir frowned. “But we have to have messengers available for urgent matters into Ithilien. I will send a letter to the city to order those messengers that know the way into Henneth Annûn back to Osgiliath. Darin, get the order to your boys to ready a horse. The messenger will leave before dusk.”

“Yes, Captain.”

The Captain scanned his officers’ faces again. “Is there anything else?” The men met his questioning gaze. They trusted him, respected him, that was all he requested of them. There were no secrets between the Captain-General of Gondor and his brothers in arms. Some smiled briefly at their commander’s gaze, but nobody spoke.

Boromir struck the wooden table with his flat hand. “We meet again tomorrow, one hour after sunrise. The council is closed.”

The grey-haired man that had greeted the boy stepped out from behind the shelf. Anakil put his bag on the floor and scratched his nose with both hands to cover a chuckle. But he could not scratch away the smile that refused to leave his face.

The man was tall, almost as tall as Captain Boromir, but his body was alarmingly thin. A worn but clean messenger’s shirt had been pulled out of crumpled breeches and hung down almost to his knees. His leather boot were old and seemingly of two different colors, but on second glance Anakil saw that it was indeed a matching pair of boots, only in different state of muddiness.

It came to Anakil’s mind that he had never before seen a human being that looked like the failed attempt at crossbreeding a mouse, a bat, a snake and a scarecrow. He had to suppress the strong urge to giggle like a little girl.

“You may put your personal treasures on one of the homely resting places, young friend,” the man said. He had a deep, pleasant voice, a voice befitting a more heavily built man than him. Anakil would have expected him to either croak like a growing boy or sing like a bird, according to his stature.

“Thank you, my lord,” the boy said, glad to be able to direct his grinning face to the floor to pick up his bag.

While Anakil carried his bag over to one of the cots, hopefully not one next to the scarecrow, about which, of course, he couldn’t be sure, the grey-haired man rummaged on one of the shelves, quietly muttering under his breath. Anakil did not understand enough to make sense of the words, but he was sure he heard the word “small” several times, used almost as a curse. The boy quietly sat down on one of the chairs at the cluttered table, watching the man without being able to wipe the broad grin off his face.

Finally the man turned around and tossed a bundle of shirts in Anakil’s direction. Anakil caught two of them, the third dropped onto the floor. He quickly stooped to pick it up.

“Those are the signs of your office. Wear them with pride, and in remembrance to those who have worn them in the past. You might think you will be honored just because of those signs, but beware, things might not come to pass as you expect them to. You might discover that you have to earn those signs’ respect first. The people of the written word choose those whom they trust to wear the tree, but it remains with the tree alone to confirm the choice.”

Anakil touched the three shirts with the tree of Gondor embroidered at the neck. He had worn one of those shirts before, but he had not had the right to do so. But these three shirts were meant to be his, his signs of office. “I will honor these signs, my lord.”

The man smiled and stuffed the shirts he had pulled out of the compartment while looking for small ones back onto the shelf. “And, my young friend, keep them clean!”

“Off course, my lord.”

The man covered the distance between the shelves and the table with two big strides and sat down on the tabletop, not caring that there wasn’t really a free space for him to sit. Anakil hoped the papers the man sat upon were not of importance to anyone. “Anakil son of Anabar of the Anduin.”

“Yes, my lord,” Anakil said, even though it had not sounded like a question.

“The young man seeking adventure and honor with a noble steed in the green meadows of Ithilien. The heroic thief that stole one of the signs of office you are to carry now, to do something very wrong and got away unscathed, for, even though he did great wrong indeed, he also did something right.” The man had his eyes closed, his long legs swinging back and forth without touching the floor. “So your journey has finally brought you to my doorstep.” The man opened his eyes again, the startling blue irises cold as ice. “Can you read?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Write?”

The grey-haired messenger did not carry a symbol of rank, but Anakil was sure he was no ordinary messenger. His pleasant voice had turned into the commanding voice of an officer, a voice the boy had heard often enough. Suddenly Anakil didn’t encounter any more problems with wiping the grin off his face. “Yes, my lord.”

“Legibly?”

“Well…,” Anakil paused. “Yes…I think…my lord.”

The man folded his long arms across his chest. “Don’t think. I don’t want your thoughts. Thoughts are dust and ashes, less than memories when you leave the circles of this world. I want facts, for facts remain. Write something down.”

“Now?”

“Now.” The man picked up a pen, a vial of ink and a rumpled sheet of paper and placed it before Anakil. “Write down your name, your father’s name, your mother’s name and your brothers’ and sisters’ names, should you have any.”

Anakil dipped the pen into the ink and started writing. His injured arm throbbed in protest, but he was writing down a few words, not an entire letter. The pain was bearable for the short time.

“And I warn you, do not soil your family’s names by just scrawling them down like someone who has no respect for them, for names bring great power to those who know how to use them wisely, more than you are aware of right now.”

“Beldil already taught me that words are weapons, a power that is as dangerous and terrifying as any other weapon people use in times of war.” Anakil put the pen aside and handed the paper over to the man. Then he carefully rubbed his right upper arm.

“Beldil is a good man, wiser than most of his tender age.” The man scanned the words on the paper and nodded. “Nice enough, Anakil son of Anabar. Nice indeed, for someone who tries to hide an injury.”

Anakil smiled.

“You called words dangerous and terrifying, and you are right, they are all of that.” He folded the paper and put it into a small pocket of his breeches. “But nevertheless, there is a beauty in them few have ever been granted the ability to fully understand. A sword can be a beautiful sight in the hands of an able swordsman, an arrow on fire can paint a glowing path into the sky, a stone flying from a catapult can make the earth tremble under its impact, but there is something all those beautiful, terrifying things have in common. Do you know what that is, my famous young apprentice?”

Anakil thought for a minute and shook his head. “No, my lord.”

The man nodded and jumped off the tabletop. “The use of force,” he said, his voice suddenly loud enough to fill the entire tent. Anakil thought he saw the tent walls vibrate. “You don’t need great strength of the body to destroy with the beauty of words. Most times, it is enough if they’re whispered. Do you know which words are the most terrifying, the most powerful and at the same time the most beautiful?”

“’I want…?’” Anakil asked.

The grey-haired man shook his head and put his hands in his pockets. “Good choice for someone so young, but it is not what I had in mind. Maybe you are too young to have ever thought about the meaning of those three words.” He smiled and leaned forward to whisper in Anakil’s ear: “I love you.”

Anakil’s eyes widened in surprise. The man was right. He would do a lot to hear those words whispered into his ear by a beautiful girl at home. He would risk a lot if promised those words as a reward, far more than the girl’s father could force him to risk by threatening him with a sword. “You are right, my lord.”

“Of course I am right.” The man straightened. “I have wielded words and swords for a time much longer than the short period of time you have breathed Arda’s air. I will teach you to wield a sword. And I will teach you some secrets of words. Most of them cannot be taught, though, you have to discover them by yourself.” The messenger straddled a chair and rested his arms on the backrest. “I know you have been sent here by the Captain to be what you once pretended to be.” His blue eyes suddenly reminded Anakil of the patience and understanding he had seen only once before in his life, in his mother’s eyes. The pleasant voice resembled Anarion’s soft tones, whenever his eldest brother had explained to him one of Arda’s wonders in his early childhood. “There is something you have to understand, my famous young apprentice. I want you to listen carefully and to remember my words, should you ever be in doubt or in despair.”

Anakil nodded slowly. “I always remember.”

“I am not a heroic warrior. None of the protectors of the written words are known for their valor in battle, nor for their wisdom. There are no awesome songs sung about us at night around the campfire. You are young, my famous apprentice, and all young men crave glory on the battlefield, an honorable life and, if their lifespan is meant to be cut short, an honorable death. Warriors live to protect Gondor with their lives or with their deaths, however they may serve best. Warriors love and protect their commander, come what may.

“Messengers are different. Our honor lies elsewhere. Our first duty is to protect the written words that have been entrusted to our care. For us, there is no shame in hiding and running away. We cannot protect Gondor with our death, because a dead messenger equals a message that will never be delivered. Most of us are valiant fighters, either with the bow or with the sword, but people never acknowledge those skills in us as they do in warriors. Some people think us cowards because of our choice to protect and carry the written word. Those people do not understand the power and beauty of words. Don’t let their words hurt you, for life hurts more than enough without taking to heart the words of fools.

“We are brothers in arms as warriors are, even though we always ride out alone. We love Gondor and our Captains as fiercely as those who surrender their lives to this love, we are soldiers like everybody else, even though our way of expressing this love is different. Are you ready to be different, Anakil of the Anduin?”

“Yes, my lord,” Anakil said.

“Then listen carefully to what I will teach you in the days to come. Listen carefully and remember as much as you can.”

“I will, my lord. The Captain sent me here, and I will not disappoint him. “

“I am glad to hear that, my famous young apprentice.”

“I am glad to hear that, too. I expect no less of you, Anakil.”

Anakil scrambled to his feet at the sound of the Captain’s deep voice. “My lord Captain!” he said.

Captain Boromir stood in the entrance to the tent, holding the tent flap open with one hand. Anakil had never seen him this close in the full light of day. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from the tall, strong and fair warrior to bow deeply. He did not want to get caught staring like one of the boys. He was not a boy any more.

“My lord Captain,” the grey-haired messenger said as well, as he rose to his feet and folded his hands at his back. “What can the servants of the written word do for you today?”

“Ride to Minas Tirith with this message.” The Captain handed the messenger a sealed envelope, which the messenger accepted with a deep bow. “Deliver it to the Warden of the stables, and bring him my greetings. I expect your return by sunset tomorrow at the latest, and with the approval of the Warden, you will not return alone.”

“My lord.” The messenger bowed again, carefully put the message into the pocket of his shirt and stuffed the loose shirt into his breeches. “With your permission, my lord, I will set out immediately.”

“By all means, do so. A horse is being readied for you while we speak.”

Anakil smiled. He knew what would be going on in the stables right now. The boys would hurry to brush one of the horses, saddle and bridle it, decide whether they should strap on saddle bags with provisions or leave the saddle bare to lessen the horse’s burden for so short a ride. They would draw sticks to decide who would have the honor to lead the horse out to wait for the messenger. He would never have to draw sticks again. One day, he would be the one to receive the horse, nod to the boy and ride off.

The messenger grabbed a dark cloak that lay crumpled on one of the chairs. “My famous young apprentice, I have to leave you for now. We will start our studies when I return. Remember what I told you today. Farewell for now.” He bowed his head to Anakil, then he bowed deeply to the Captain. “My lord.” His dark cloak fluttered behind him as he left the tent with long strides.

“It’s strange. I don’t even know his name,” Anakil muttered to himself.

“Neither do I, young soldier,” Captain Boromir said, a smile lightening his stern face. “He is one of the Steward’s messengers from the White City.”

“How do people address him, if you don’t mind me asking, my lord?” Anakil clasped his hands behind his back as the messenger had done it. His right arm throbbed in protest, and he quickly laid it across his stomach to ease his discomfort.

“He is called ‘the Poet’,” Captain Boromir said. “Some of the men have promised a bottle of good brandy to the lucky one who can discover his real name.”

“Why don’t you order him to tell his name, Captain?”

“I will order him, should the need to know his name arise. The Steward is the only one who knows his real name, and even he calls him by the name of Poet. As long as this name is good enough for the Steward, it is good enough for me.” Captain Boromir shrugged. “Some mysteries are not meant to be solved the simple way.” The Captain’s smile widened. “Should you as his student catch his real name by accident, remember to tell me.” The Captain turned and left the tent.

“The Poet,” Anakil whispered to himself. “The master of the humble chamber of the written word.” He grinned to himself. “A riddle is a riddle and a challenge is a challenge.” His brothers would love him until the end of days should he be able to get them a bottle of good brandy for their birthday less than a month ahead.

  



	13. The watches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

XIII

Osgiliath’s eastern perimeter was guarded by three half circles of watches. The center of those rings was the bridge, and the inner half circle began just behind the last tents and buildings of the garrison. It consisted of ten men, each one of them armed with a short bow and a sword. They were in shouting distance to the first tents, so there was no need to supply them with horns. They were always moving, guarding a defined area, meeting with the watches to their left and right to exchange observations and assure that the other was still there.  
The second circle was made up of twenty men, all of them armed with a bow and equipped with small horns to make themselves heard if necessary. Most of them carried their swords as well, but they didn’t have to if they didn’t want to, for they were not allowed to move about or even rise, except in defense or to determine the origin of a sound. They lay hidden in fixed positions, behind trees or just flat on the ground, listening and trying to scan the darkness for movements. If everything went as planned, there was no movement at all within visual range of the second watch circle.  
It was the third circle’s duty to prevent any living being on two legs that did not have business with the Osgiliath company from getting close to the garrison. The third circle consisted of thirty-six men, eighteen of them stationary on the ground like their comrades in the second circle, the other eighteen constantly moving back and forth between those positions, searching the meadows and woods for suspicious activities. It was a fifteen minutes’ march to the third watch circle, too far for any runner to warn the garrison about approaching danger. The men of the third circle were armed with short bows and swords. Those that were moving were equipped with fast fire-arrows, to shoot high into the dark sky and therefore draw attention, the others carried great horns.  
Captain Boromir could feel the outline of the horn of Gondor at his hip. It had started raining early in the evening, and even though the rain was quite warm, he could think of many far more comfortable positions than lying face down in the mud, water pouring down his cheeks and neck and further down over his shoulders and back. His hair was plastered against his shoulders, and the dark cloak he had spread over his prone form was soaked and provided neither warmth nor comfort at all.  
It had been a while since he had last lain on watch like this. He had forgotten how boring and straining two hours alone in the darkness behind a tree or on the ground could be. The air was still, the rain poured down in straight lines. He was in the third watch circle, too far away from the garrison to benefit from the light of the campfires and the many torches on the bridge. It was completely dark, all he was able to see was the outline of a big tree a few feet ahead. The heavy rain splashed on fallen leaves, on the muddy ground and into small puddles, drowning every other sound. He didn’t even hear the moving watch until the man was close behind or right next to him. He had his bow ready in his hands, and he prayed that his relief was careful enough to hail him in the darkness, otherwise the poor man was in danger of catching an arrow.  
Everyone was nervous. The soldiers had been informed about their commanders’ suspicions that the enemy was moving. They also knew the officers were starting to take over watches. Boromir had made sure the men had been reminded that the officers had not lain on watch for some time, and that everybody should be careful around them, the moving men and the relievers alike.  
A drop of water had found its way under his chain mail and leather shirt to his bare back, slowly moving over his damp skin to his side and to the ground. He wanted to move his arms to scratch himself and to wring the water out of his hair, but he had spent his time on more than enough watches in the past to know it was essential to lie still and endure every discomfort nature happened to throw his way.  
A small beetle crawled out of the darkness and made his way through mud and rain close to Boromir’s face. Small drops of water bounced off his dark solid back, and Boromir regretted that he hadn’t brought his shield with him, to ward off at least some of the wetness. The beetle stopped for a moment, turned its little head and looked at Gondor’s Captain General. Boromir softly blew at the small creature and the beetle scurried away into the darkness. Unfortunately not all opponents could be forced into retreat by a simple soft breath.  
Boromir remembered Faramir’s last personal letter about his brother’s deeds in Ithilien and decided that he deserved his drenching after all. He had spent almost every evening either in his tent or with his men at a campfire, while Faramir had led many patrols in Ithilien, waylaying Orcs and Southrons, spending much longer hours in the bushes and muddy clearings of Ithilien than the duration of a watch at Osgiliath. He tried to justify his degree of comfort by reminding himself that he had made decisions while sitting at the campfire or in his tent, but Faramir and his Lieutenants also made decisions, decisions concerning the life or death of their men, and they did it in their hideout as well as in the mud during an ambush. The officers of Osgiliath had been spoiled a little in the past, and now that this had changed, they did not have the right to complain. Boromir would make sure that his officers didn’t discuss his orders behind his back, not even when they were off duty.  
“Relief!”  
The whispered word was the most beautiful sound Boromir had heard in a while. He nevertheless aimed his arrow in the direction the voice had come from until he could see a soldier approaching in the rain, his cloak drawn closely about his body, his face pulled into a grimace of misery.  
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Boromir whispered and rose into a standing position. His breeches and cloak were heavy with water and mud, and he knew the expression on his face mirrored that of the soldier.  
“Captain!” the soldier replied in surprise, then a toothy smile crept onto his face, and Boromir saw that the man had to pull himself together to repress a chuckle. “It’s an honor to be your relief, my lord. Have a good night.”  
Boromir nodded in understanding. He had forgotten how good it felt to be just one of the men from time to time. He waited until the guard had lain down onto the ground and made his way back to the camp.

 

Four torches were lit in the big healers’ tent, therefore the tent was glowing invitingly, a soft light in the darkness and the rain. Anakil hurried to get inside and shook his head like a dog to rid his hair of the water. Beldil was not the only patient any more, so the boy very quietly took a chair and sat down next to the wounded messenger’s cot. Beldil was sitting upright, supported by several pillows, in serious battle with a large bowl of soup.  
Anakil shrugged off his wet cloak and hung it over the backrest of his chair. “You look much better,” he said by way of greeting.  
“Where have you been all day, Anakil? Getting into trouble again?” Beldil raised his head and smiled. “I am much better indeed. I’m even able to eat on my own.” He carefully moved his right hand in which he clutched a large spoon. “I will be on my feet in a few days. The healers even encouraged me to eat as much as I can stomach. You know, sometimes I am more than eager to follow the healers’ advice. Vegetable soup with chicken. It’s just great. Do you want some? I can get as much as I like. I just have to order.”  
“Thank you, but I already had dinner.” Anakil smiled and shook his head. ”And I have not been in trouble for hours.”  
“That’s hard to believe.” Beldil carefully moved the spoon to his mouth.  
“Honestly, I spent the better part of the afternoon alone in the messengers’ tent, thinking.”  
Beldil lowered the spoon and chuckled. “You have met the poet,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.  
Anakil’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Who told you?”  
“News travel fast in Osgiliath, but some news is not interesting enough to travel at all.” Beldil chuckled again. “I see it on you face. He can talk to someone for fifteen minutes and make that person think about his words for hours. You have this thoughtful look on your face right now. How is the old scarecrow?”  
“The Captain sent him to Minas Tirith with a message. Later another messenger went to the city as well, but I don’t think the errands were connected. The poet will be back by tomorrow evening. He told me he will be my instructor in the ways of messengers.” Anakil shrugged. “I think I am all right with that.”  
“You are a lucky little bastard, Anakil.” Beldil continued eating. “The poet is the most experienced messenger in all of Gondor. The Steward himself trusts him with his most important and most secret errands. He can be – different – sometimes, but he can teach you more about written words than every other messenger in the army. Nobody even knows his real name, not even the Captain…only the Steward knows, I think.”  
“I know. And I am determined to win that bottle of brandy.”  
“Good luck.” Beldil grinned. “I will remind you of your youthful enthusiasm and innocence a few years from now.”  
“You don’t have to remind me.” Anakil shrugged and put a hand through his hair to push some wet strands out of his face. “Did you forget that I always remember?”  
“Then remember the last advice I will give you this evening...”  
Anakil cocked his head in anticipation. “Yes?”  
“…never underestimate the poet.”  
“I won’t,” Anakil promised. “I promise, I won’t get into trouble again.”  
“Is it your ear that has persuaded you to be a good boy for the rest of the day?” Beldil pointed at Anakil’s discolored ear and smiled. “Do you have any other new injuries? And how is your arm?”  
“My arm will be all right soon.” Anakil rubbed his arm carefully. “The healers declared me ready for light duty already. Concerning the ear…” He shrugged. “I got what I deserved… Maybe I got even less than I deserved.” He shrugged again. “You know, Beldil, some people get executed when they leave their post in times of war. I didn’t just leave my post. I lied. I stole something. And I was very stupid. And all they did to me was twist my ear a little and squeeze my shoulder a little and force me to become a messenger and make me think…” He stopped in his speech. He liked Beldil and trusted him, but he didn’t want to talk about the fear and panic he had endured during the ride from Henneth Annûn to Osgiliath just now. He didn’t want to bother the injured man with the nightmares that would come soon, dreams of the black gate and severed limbs. “It’s not important what they made me think,” he added. “They left me alive and in one piece. I think Captain Boromir did me a favor by sending me to the messengers.”  
Beldil smiled at that. “You have grown up a lot during those few days in Ithilien, Anakil,” he said. “I think Captain Faramir and Captain Boromir saw that potential in you. They did not only see your mistakes, they saw that you were able to learn. Captain Faramir saw something similar in me, too, about ten years ago. He has a special way with people.”  
“Captain Faramir is a wise man. He really understands what people are thinking. There was no need to fear him. I know that now. There was no need to fear Captain Boromir as well. I think I will be fine from now on.”  
“You will be fine.” Beldil put his spoon aside and slowly raised his right hand. “Welcome to the messengers, Anakil.”  
Anakil carefully grasped the young man’s hand and squeezed firmly.

  
As promised, the poet returned the next afternoon, together with three messengers from the city.  
Anakil had spent the day dozing on his cot. He was restricted to light duty only, but there was no light duty available for messengers in training at Osgiliath. He had dusted the shelves and checked the shirts and saddle bags for holes in the morning, and he had written down some childhood poems that had come to his mind to practice his writing. He had visited his brothers’ tent around midday, but Anarion and Anagor hadn’t had any time for him. Anarion had been asleep after a long night of watch on the bridge, and Anagor had been on duty somewhere in the garrison.  
The three newly arrived messengers put their saddle bags on three free cots in the messengers’ tent and disappeared to visit friends and catch up on rumors in the garrison.  
Anakil had not slept much in the night, for the nightmares he had feared had finally arrived. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the Black Gate looming in front of him. He wanted to run away, wanted to climb up a tree and hide, but when he tried to snatch a low hanging branch to pull himself up, he discovered that his hands were gone. The stumps that were the ends of his arms were bleeding, and when he turned around to flee, there were Orcs everywhere, grinning and shouting at him, mocking him; the small helpless boy that could not hide his fear.  
It hadn’t been difficult to stay awake and escape the dreams at night, but he was tired now and glad for the opportunity to dream with open eyes and therefore be able to choose in which direction his thoughts would stray.  
“Catch this.”  
He didn’t realize the words were meant for him and didn’t move at all to catch something wrapped in a blanket the poet tossed towards him. The bundle landed squarely on his stomach, and he winced in pain. Something hard and heavy was inside the blanket. “Ouch,” he breathed.  
“The time for dreams is over, my young apprentice. You will learn everything there is to learn about delivering messages, and you will learn everything there is to learn about protecting messages. A weaponsmith of the armory in the city repaid an old debt of honor…”  
Anakil slowly sat up and unwrapped the bundle that had landed on his stomach. It was a short sword. A few rich men ordered them for their growing sons, for practice purposes until the boys were strong enough to wield a longer weapon. Anakil had never touched one of these very rare swords. The scabbard was plain and undecorated, but as Anakil carefully grasped the beautiful hilt and unsheathed the sword, he recognized that the blade was of superior quality. On the blade, just below the handle, there were some curved lines, like the symbol of water. Anakil twisted the sword in his grip and moved it through the air, testing its weight. His arm protested with a stab of pain at the unexpected strain. He quickly laid the sword in his lap to rub the throbbing wound. “It is beautiful,” he said. “It must have been very expensive. Those swords are only made on request.”  
“It was forged for a young man of your age and size, but sadly this young man left the face of Arda before the weapon was finished. The smith who forged it had already started to engrave the family’s sign below the hilt. He didn’t finish the sign when the young man died, and he didn’t even try to erase it either, for nobody buys a sword that was meant to serve a young man who died an untimely death. The sword had been simply put away, until I asked for it, so there are still those curved lines visible. Curved lines, like flowing water. Anakil of the Anduin, this sword was meant to be yours. I will show you how to wield it as soon as your right arm is strong enough again.”  
Anakil didn’t know what to say. He carefully sheathed the sword and belted it around his waist. “Thank you,” he finally said. “Does it have a name?”  
“I will choose a name for itself when it is ready,” the poet replied. “Swords are like words, my young apprentice. You will never be able to fully understand where they’re going to lead you. When you have the right name for your sword in your mind, it will let you know.”  
Anakil put his left hand on his new sword and got up from his cot. “Thank you, Poet,” he said again.  
“You were curious enough to ask someone for my name. I like that.” The poet smiled and sat down on the edge of the wooden table. “Now sit down and help yourself to paper and ink. Make notes when I speak to you, because I don’t like to repeat what I have already said. What do you know about seals?”  
Anakil hurried to clear a spot on the table and grabbed everything he needed to make notes. “Nothing,” he confessed.  
“Seals are important. Never ever break a seal. The seal is part of the information you have to carry safely from one place to another. Seals tell you a lot about the content of the message. Every Captain and Lord has his own seal, to inform the recipient about who has written the message or, if he had not written the message himself, who vouches for the content.  
“I will show you all the different seals that are known in Gondor. You have to recognize every single seal at first glance, and you have to learn to distinguish the handwriting of the Lords and Captains as well. If the Lord or Captain sends you on the errand in person, like Captain Boromir did yesterday, the message is very urgent. If a Captain or Lord has written the message that carries his seal in person, this message is very important. All messages are important, but those messages have the highest priority. If you are sent to the city with five messages to deliver to five different people, the messages that have been written by the owner of the seal have to be delivered first. Nobody tells you that when giving you the errand. They expect you to know, and more importantly, I expect you to know.  
“You will learn to recognize Captain Boromir’s handwriting first, because his is an easy one to learn, and you will see it quite often in Osgiliath. The handwriting of the Steward and of Captain Faramir are a little difficult to tell apart, but you will learn to see the differences in time. Those three are the most important men in Gondor, so you will learn their handwritings first.  
“The position of the seal is important as well. There are four possible ways of placing the seal on the wax. If it is in upright position, it is an official message containing information important to the recipient. If it is upside down, the content is personal. A seal pointing to the east consist of the transcript of an intercepted message of the enemy. A seal pointing to the west contains new orders to a Captain from the Steward, or orders from the Captain General to the Captains.  
“You will certainly ask why you have to know about that, for you will never read the messages entrusted to your care. The solution is simple. Imagine you are about to be captured or killed by enemies. If there is no way to save yourself and therefore save the messages you carry, you have to destroy them. Imagine you carry many messages, but you don’t have enough time to destroy all of them. You take a look at the seals and destroy the messages with the seals pointing north and west first. Then you destroy those where the seals are pointing east. A personal message cannot cause much harm should it fall into the hands of the enemy. Do you understand what I am talking about, my young apprentice?”  
Anakil nodded. He put the pen down and folded his arms across his chest. He had not written down a single word.  
“Don’t you want to make notes?” the poet asked.  
“I am cursed or in this case blessed with a good memory,” Anakil said. “I don’t want to put unnecessary strain on my arm.”  
The poet nodded, not questioning the young man’s words. “Then listen carefully and remember.”

 

The poet talked until some of the other messengers arrived and disturbed the lesson. They continued early the next morning and worked until midday. Anakil retired for a few hours to his cot while the poet went to the training grounds on the western shore to practice his swordplay. As soon as he returned he continued talking until it was time for supper. There was a lot to talk about and a lot to learn, and Anakil realized he was looking forward to continuing with the lessons early in the morning.  
He didn’t have any problems getting up early, for he didn’t sleep well and knew he wouldn’t be able to rest undisturbed at night for quite some time. He had thought about talking to Anarion about his nightmares, but he seldom was alone with his eldest brother, and should he catch him somewhere out of hearing distance of the other soldiers, Anarion was either in a hurry or tired. The simple soldiers had to do more watches than ever before. The occasional fights with small bands of enemies in the woods had cost a lot of lives over the months and years. There were not many soldiers left to do the duties that had to be done.  
Anakil spent a lot of time in his brothers’ tent, but when the twins were off duty for the evening, the three brothers talked about funny things that happened in the garrison, sometimes about their home and about their dreams for the future. Anakil did not want to disturb those rare moments of happiness and peace by talking about his fears. The nightmares would lessen and vanish given time, and he was young, he could stomach the lack of sleep. Fortunately, most of the time the poet’s lessons were interesting enough and therefore he never fell asleep or was caught letting his mind drift off a little during one of the messenger’s long monologues.  
Anakil had never imagined there was so much to learn about delivering messages. He spent a week listening to the poet and practicing his skills at recognizing seals and handwritings. He visited Beldil at the healers’ tent as often as possible, and he spent a lot of time admiring and carefully testing his new sword.  
He had presented the weapon to his brothers on the day he had received it, and his brothers had admired the superior short sword as well. None of them carried a sword of this quality, but Anakil would gladly exchange his good short sword for a more ordinary long one if he could only be tall and strong enough to wield it. His brothers were very proud of him, and for the first time since he had joined the army, the other boys talked to him with respect. The poet had promised him that they would start with some swordfighting in a few days, for the wound on Anakil’s arm had scarred and didn’t trouble him much any more.  
The boy remembered what he had told Beldil a week ago in the healers’ tent and smiled.  
He was fine indeed.

 

It had been his first watch in a week during which there hadn’t been a single drop of rain, for which Boromir was very grateful. He wrapped his cloak tightly around his body as he slowly made his way from the third circle of watches back into the garrison. It was a clear summer’s night, a full moon and many stars lit his way. A soft wind swayed the treetops and stirred some leaves on the ground. He called the password to the watch of the first circle and passed into the perimeter of the garrison.  
It was past midnight, but the night was warm. Some of the men were still sitting around campfires, laughing and talking. All of them bowed their heads in greeting as their Captain passed by, and Boromir stopped to exchange a few words with some of the men, to grasp hands or squeeze shoulders.  
All officers had been included in the watch roster for a week now, but that had not changed much. The scouts still needed two days to get the information about the enemy into Osgiliath. The enemy continued moving, back and forth, close to the river and in the meadows of Ithilien. The soldiers of Osgiliath were unable to gather enough information to see a pattern in the movement, if there was a pattern at all.  
It was the night between the nineteenth and twentieth of June. He had planned to leave for Minas Tirith at the end of the month. That meant he had to wait for at least eight more days. Eight more days was too long a time. He decided he would inform the Council of Osgiliath in the morning that he planned to leave in two days. The Lords of the city were talking about what could be done about the enemy’s movement, but the Steward’s messages didn’t raise any hope that they would come up with a fast solution. The Lords had to understand they had to find a way to discover whether Ithilien or even Gondor were in immediate danger before it was too late.  
The loud voice of a horn disturbed the peaceful silence of the night. A second horn joined in, followed by a third, then there were too many of them to distinguish them any more.  
Boromir turned around and saw three burning arrows painting glowing paths on the dark sky. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword. A fourth arrow appeared from between the trees of Ithilien, and even more horns joined the dreadful chorus.  
Then, all of a sudden, the horns fell silent, and no more arrows could be seen dancing in the sky.

 


	14. The brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

 

 

XIV

Silence.

The wind ceased blowing. No more leaves fell rustling to the ground. The Anduin flowed soundless between the stony pillars of the bridge. The merry conversations at the campfires came to an abrupt end. The fires continued burning, their bright orange flames casting dark shadows on silent faces. The moon hid behind a small patch of cloud, leaving only the stars as tiny sources of light. The stars far above and the flickering campfires.

Peace wasn’t that silent. Peace wasn’t that dark. In times of peace, a mere second couldn’t last an eternity.

“To arms!” Boromir cried, unsheathing his long sword and shrugging off his dark cloak. “Archers into positions! Swordsmen to the circles!”

The men at the campfires jumped to their feet, weapons in hand. The polished steel of many blades reflected the glow of the campfires as the men took position next to their Lieutenants, quickly forming a long line of defense close to the eastern ruins of the ancient city. Orders were shouted and acknowledged, heavy boots thundered on the leaf covered ground of Ithilien. Behind the lines, men busy pulling on chainmal and shouldering swords, their eyelids heavy with sleep, left the tents, joining their comrades in the defense lines.

“Hold your fire!” Boromir’s calm, deep voice was louder than the sudden noise. He moved forward with long strides, the lines of his men parting quietly before him. “Wait for my command.”

The first line of archers was already kneeling on the ground, in pairs, their bows ready, their arrows on the ground in front of them. Close behind them was the first line of swordsmen. There were small gaps between the kneeling pairs, leaving room for the swordsmen behind them to move forward.

“We need light!” Boromir took his place in the first line of swordsmen, in the gap between two kneeling archers. He raised his left arm, and his men cheered in response, saluting their Captain. “Hold your fire!” he repeated, his bare hand still raised to draw attention. “Wait for my signal. Light!”

Some guards from the first and second line of defense came running from the woods, taking up their places next to their comrades. The lines of soldiers were still forming up behind the Captain. Boromir heard the Lieutenants’ voices shouting orders, calling out names and positions. There were other voices as well, the voices of boys handing out arrows and shields. The soldiers of Osgiliath were well trained for attack and defense alike.

A single horn cried out in the darkness, giving the all-clear signal. The time span between the warning calls and the all-clear was much too long. Nobody even lowered his weapon. Boromir smiled grimly. He always reminded his soldiers that the enemy wasn’t stupid at all. If there was a long silence between two calls, it was possible that the enemy had seized a horn and was tried to set the garrison under attack at ease, doubling the efficiency of the strike. If none of the guards of the third circle reached the garrison to rely the all-clear signal in person, Osgiliath stayed alert and ready for battle.

Boromir lowered his arm and squinted in the darkness. “Light!” he called again.

A bright flickering light appeared from behind a ruin, and the men cheered once more. The hooves of a horse thundered on the ground. The horse was bare backed and equipped only with a bitless bridle. There were two riders on its back. One was small and slender; his body bent low over the horse’s neck, while he guided the animal on the reins. The second rider was tall and gaunt, and he was clothed in old breeches and chainmail over a white shirt. In both hands the man carried torches, as many as he could grasp. He had both arms stretched out to the sides so as not to ignite himself on the dancing fires, while the horse moved swiftly to the edge of the underbrush where the enemy was supposed to emerge at any time now.

The horse did not enter the underbrush, but stopped at a silent command of the small rider. The man with the torches quickly turned around to see how far away he was from the archers and nodded to himself as he found himself well inside their arrows’ range. The horse turned and slowly cantered along the underbrush. The rider dropped his torches at intervals, igniting some damp leaves on the ground, casting flickering light along a long line, making it easier for the archers to find a target emerging from the darkness of the underbrush, while the archers themselves were covered in the shadows of the night.

As soon as he had dropped his last torch, the second rider put his arms around the first rider’s waist, and the horse galloped back towards the ruins of the city. The lines of archers and swordsmen had closed completely, and riders and horse had to jump over a line of archers in order to disappear back the way they had come.

Then there was silence again.

Ten minutes had passed since the first horn had cried out its warning into the night. Three minutes since the single horn had called all-clear. It was a walk of at least fifteen minutes from the third ring of watches to the garrison. None of the guards from the third ring had reached the garrison yet. They could only guess what was happening right now in the darkness of Ithilien.

Boromir didn’t like the silence. The hilt of his sword was cold and comforting in his right hand. His left hand was bare. He missed his shield, but there had been no time to reach his quarters on the bridge and get it.

Something was approaching. They had known it for days, maybe even for weeks now. Maybe the waiting was over. He was glad he hadn’t left for the city yet. Whatever was approaching his garrison, his men, Gondor; he was among them to fight at their side.

He could feel the ranks of his men at his back. They were quiet; there was no need for conversation. They knew each other well, knew that there was a moment of silence and waiting before every battle. Maybe some of them were praying silently, maybe they were clasping hands for strength; maybe they were just banning all thoughts from their minds. There was no need for many thoughts in battle. Thoughts slowed movements, and when thoughts turned into doubt or fear, everything was lost. Boromir knew he could rely on his men. They wouldn’t doubt what they were fighting for, and they would not be afraid.

 

 

The call of the first horn roused Anakil from a troubled sleep. His eyes shot open, and for a second he thought that the sound had only been in his nightmare. But more horns disturbed the silence, and the five messengers that occupied the cots next to his scrambled out of their blankets, searching for their clothes and weapons. Anakil rolled out of his cot and pulled on his boots. He didn’t bother to pull on a shirt; he only grabbed his sword and bolted to the exit of the tent.

A cold, clawlike hand on his shoulder stopped him and spun him around. He momentarily lost his balance and almost dropped his sword. ”Where are you going, clothed in little more than nature gave you on the day of your birth?” the Poet hissed at him.

“The alarm…,” Anakil tried to explain. “My position is…”

“Your position is with the messengers now,” the Poet explained and let go of the boy’s shoulder. “And messengers do not assist the soldiers in the first lines. Get dressed.”

Anakil took a quick look around and noticed that all the messengers were in the process of pulling on shirts, boots and chainmail. They were hurrying, but Anakil knew that any boy who took the time to dress properly when the horns had sounded would be called to Lieutenant Darin for a serious chat. “Aren’t we going to help defending the garrison?” the boy asked. “Like the boys and errand runners do it?”

“We are going to help,” the poet said. “We just do it our way. Get dressed and armed and meet us at the stables. And hurry!”

“Is this a drill?” Anakil grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head.

“It doesn’t matter, my young apprentice.” The Poet took his swordbelt in one hand and hurried out of the tent.

Anakil did not own chainmail, not even a strong leather jerkin to protect his body. He tugged his shirt into his breeches and left the tent shortly after the last messenger. He was able to catch up with them on the way to the stables.

The whole garrison was in movement. Many torches lit the dark night. All tentflaps were open. Armed men hurried to the eastern perimeter of the garrison to take their position in the defense. Some of them carried torches or small lamps. Anakil raised his gaze to the sky, but there were no burning arrows to be seen. Either there had not been any, as in the drills, or they had stopped flying already. The Lieutenants shouted orders, requested arrows, shields, torches, called names and curses. Anakil saw some of the boys bolting out of their quarters, barefoot, clad only in breeches, their dark hair tousled and their sleepy eyes full of fear. Somehow he knew that, even though he was fully clothed, he still looked a lot like them.

It was difficult to reach the stables, for all other men were moving in another direction. He stayed close to the Poet. There was a much shorter way to the stables, off the main path, through the yard of one ruin, over some fallen stones and past some thorny bushes, but he didn’t want to argue with the Poet right now.

“We need light!” Captain Boromir’s voice, coming from the defense lines, was clearly understandable in the noisy chaos.

The stables were dark and lonely. A single boy guarded the door, armed with a small dagger, on his own on midnight watch. Anakil pitied the boy, for he knew exactly how it felt to be alone in the darkness, guarding the horses during a drill.

“Wait for my call! Light!” Captain Boromir’s voice again.

A single horn cried the signal for all-clear. Anakil sighed in relief, then he noticed that all the messengers simply ignored the call and continued on their way to the stables. The armed warriors on the paths didn’t slow down either. “The horn!” he shouted, out of breath. “Didn’t you hear the horn?”

“The horn is not important, Anakil!” one of the messengers shouted back at him. “Come on!”

The messengers stopped in front of the stables. Most of them belted their weapons and took positions in the shadows next to the entrance, lighting torches. None of them seemed to even think about joining the soldiers in the upcoming fight.

“Why don’t we listen to the horn?” Anakil looked for the Poet and stopped next to him. “And why are we not preparing for fighting?” he asked, pushing his tousled hair out of his eyes.

The Poet ignored the questions. “Get me a horse!” he ordered the boy at the entrance to the stables. “Now!”

The boy just looked at the tall, grey-haired man, his young face a mask of fear and confusion. He did not move, either to get a horse or to open the door and light a torch.

“Why are we not helping in the defense?” Anakil asked again.

“Anakil, later!” the Poet hissed. He grabbed the horseboy and shoved him aside. The horseboy fumbled about with his dagger and tried to stab the tall messenger in the stomach. Without really looking at the small, frightened boy, the Poet caught the boy’s wrist with one hand in a bone crushing grip. The horseboy cried out in pain and dropped the weapon. “My apologies, young soldier,” the Poet whispered, then he ordered sharply: “Anakil, I need a horse!”

Anakil nodded and entered the stables. He was used to getting orders in times of crisis, to having a clearly defined task at hand. It was dark inside the stables, but he knew his way around the place and didn’t need any light. He grabbed a bridle that was hanging on the wall, put two fingers in his mouth and uttered a low whistle. A soft snorting to his left answered his call, and he smiled grimly in the darkness. “Hello, boy!”

“Torches!” he heard the Poet shout from the outside. “Anakil, hurry up!”

Anakil stretched out his hand and moved to his left. He opened a wooden partition, and his fingers touched the horse that was standing there. He felt along the neck until his hand reached the horse’s head and slipped on the bridle. “Good boy!” he whispered. He tugged at the reins, and the horse obediently followed him out of the stables.

The boy that had been in charge of the horses was sitting on the floor, rubbing his wrist, his eyes full of panic and pain. “Don’t steal the horses, Anakil!” he pleaded. “I will get into trouble.”

The Poet and the other messengers had gathered a lot of torches. The Poet had at least four of them in each hand, while two messengers helped him mount the horse. Anakil was clutching at the reins close to the animal’s mouth, unsure of what to do now. In the darkness, he had picked a bitless bridle. There was nothing he could do about that just now. The Poet sat on the horseback with his arms extended to the sides, careful not to set himself alight on the torches. He was unable to steer the animal.

“Up you go, boy!” One of the messengers grabbed Anakil from behind and lifted him up. “You are the smallest among us, you have to steer the horse. The Poet will guide you.”

Anakil let himself be hoisted on the horse in front of the Poet and tugged at the reins to get the animal’s attention.

“Light!” Captain Boromir’s voice called out once more.

“Bend down on the horse’s neck and get us to the edge of the underbrush,” the Poet called to Anakil.

“Please, Anakil! Don’t steal the horse!” Anakil heard the voice of the boy again, as he buried his heels in the horse’s sides.

The horse responded well to his commands, despite the missing mouthpiece. A deafening cheer greeted them, as Anakil guided the horse through the closing line of Osgiliath’s defense onto the open field between the garrison and the Ithilien forest. Every man that was able to walk and hold a weapon seemed to be armed and on his feet. The boy caught a glimpse of Captain Boromir in the first line of swordsmen, his tall, broad form clearly distinguishable despite the shadows of the night.

“Stop close to the bushes!” the Poet shouted. “Then canter along the edge of the clearing, as slowly as possible.”

Anakil sent a quick prayer to whoever might listen that the enemy would not emerge from the darkness of Ithilien at the very moment he stopped the horse, facing east. He was armed with his short sword, but that weapon would prove useless against arrows flying from out of nowhere in the darkness. The horse was calm, calmer than Anakil hoped it would be if it could smell Orcs nearby. He entertained the cautious hope that he would return to the garrison alive and in one piece.

The Poet dropped the torches while they cantered along the rim of the underbrush. Long, slender arms suddenly encircled Anakil’s waist, and without being told he pulled at the reins, forcing the animal to rear and turn on his hind legs. The Poet almost lost his balance and cursed loudly, tightening his hold around Anakil’s waist, as the horse bolted forwards again.

The line of defense had closed completely. Anakil found himself charging at the army of Gondor, at his comrades ready for battle. Some swordsmen formed a small gap to let him pass, but the archers kneeling in front of them were unable to move out of the way in time. Anakil dug his heels in the horse’s flank, and the horse obediently jumped over the kneeling archers, its hooves barely missing some dark heads. The Poet cursed again, but Anakil pretended not to hear him, and he smiled at the small cheer that accompanied their departure.

Then there was silence.

No more shouted orders disturbed the night. No more horn called warnings and all-clears. The hooves of the horse thundered unnaturally loud on the ground. Anakil reined the animal in to a stop next to a ruin. “Well done, my young apprentice.” The Poet immediately dismounted and pushed his tousled grey hair out of his eyes with an angry movement of his hand. “Ready the horse for a longer ride,” he ordered and patted the animal’s neck. “We meet again at the stables!”

“But…!” Anakil started.

“I don’t want to hear it!” the Poet’s voice was deadly calm. “Just do it. This is not a drill!”

“Where are you…?” Anakil started to ask, but he didn’t complete the question, for the Poet wasn’t listening to him any more. The messenger turned on his heels and disappeared between the ruins.

 

 

There was movement in the underbrush. The torches on the ground lit stirring branches. A small flickering light approached the line of fire, maybe a single torch, maybe an arrow on fire.

Boromir raised his sword over his head. “Ready!” he shouted, and his Lieutenants repeated the single word along the ranks.

Two human forms stepped into the ring of fire. One was carrying a small torch in one hand, his other hand was at the hilt of his sword. The second one raised his empty right hand in a gesture of greeting, his left hand hung motionless and at his hip. His head was bare, and his face was clearly visible in the light of the torches.

“Archers, hold your fire!” Boromir shouted. “Hold your fire!” He slowly lowered his sword and sheathed it. These two men did not bring danger to Osgiliath.

“Hold your fire!” The command echoed through the ranks.

The two men slowly continued on their way from the underbrush to the lines of the soldiers. The man with the torch was clothed in the garb of Osgiliath. The second wore the hooded cloak of the Ithilien Rangers.

“Captain Faramir!” a young voice exclaimed.

“Captain Faramir!” The single cheer was immediately repeated by many voices. Nevertheless the soldiers held their positions, waiting for an order to stand at ease.

Boromir stepped out from behind the archers and went to meet his brother and fellow Captain on the clearing between the soldiers and the underbrush. The brothers clasped forearms in greeting.

“Faramir.” Boromir nodded briskly, his face stern and grave.

“Boromir.” Faramir returned the polite nod.

“Explain your unexpected presence, Captain” Boromir demanded, loud enough for the company to understand his words.

Faramir’s voice was quiet, only Boromir and the soldier at their side could understand his explanation. “The Ithilien Rangers were surprised by a host of Orcs while preparing for a raid on a small band of Southrons. Some of my men died, more than half of them were wounded. We had to carry many of the wounded and could not move quickly, and the way back to Henneth Annûn is blocked by a great host of Orcs. We only have a single healer in North Ithilien, and there was no way to get all the wounded safely through the lines of the enemy. I sent a scout to report to Lieutenant Mablung in Henneth Annûn, while the rest of the men and I took the wounded here. As far as I can tell, we have not been followed. I could not spare a man to inform you of our arrival; we had a lot of wounded to care for. My men surprised some of the hidden guards in the woods, and they alerted the garrison before we could identify ourselves. There was a lot of confusion for a time, but we avoided fighting, no soldier of Gondor has been wounded out there in the darkness. Your guards and my men are already busy getting the seriously wounded into the garrison.”

Boromir nodded, satisfied with this explanation. He turned towards his men and raised one arm. “All clear. Stand at ease!” he shouted. “No enemy is approaching. The Ithilien Rangers have come here for help with many wounded. Alert the healers. Get some torches and help getting the wounded into the garrison. The rest of you, back to sleep!”

The ranks of men immediately dissolved. The Lieutenants shouted orders, and soldiers with torches hurried off into the woods. Those that had been off duty and had been roused from sleep went back to their tents to get some more rest. The boys were chattering, their clear voices easily distinguishable from the deep tones of the Lieutenants.

Boromir turned around to face his brother once more. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He grabbed his brother’s forearm again and pressed firmly. “Still alive, brother?”

“Still alive.” A lopsided smile crept onto Faramir’s face as well, as they exchanged their customary words of greeting.

Boromir covered the right side of his brother’s neck and a part of his stubbly cheek with his left hand and his smile widened into a broad grin. “Still in need of a shave?”

Faramir laughed out loud and tugged playfully at his brother’s long disheveled hair. “Still in need of a haircut?”

They had been speaking these words for twenty years now, every time they met in the field, since Faramir had left the White City for Ithilien and their meetings could be called infrequent at best. A deep chuckle rumbled in Boromir’s chest. He released Faramir’s forearm and pulled his brother close in a rough but affectionate embrace. “Some things never change, I suppose. It is good to see you, brother.”

 

 

The tension was almost visible in the clear, cool air. “Ready!” Captain Boromir’s voice pierced the silence. Nature seemed to hold its breath. Anakil made his way to the stables at a slow trot. He knew there was a shorter way, but he nevertheless chose to pass very close behind the defense lines.

From his elevated position on horseback, Anakil could make out the Captain’s raised sword in the first line. The men were tightening their hold on their weapons, the sound of steel touching steel and arrows being nocked filled the air. The horse slowed down to a walk, and Anakil did not force it to regain the faster pace. He could feel the anticipation of battle in the air, smell the sweat of many men. For a moment he wished he was one of the men in the lines, one of many ready to defend not only a city in ruins but the path into the heart of Gondor.

He thought of his brothers, tall and brave, somewhere among the men, and a paralyzing fear almost stopped his heart. The Poet had confirmed that this was not a drill. The garrison was ready for battle, and nobody could predict the outcome of a fight. In battle, men died. Brave, strong warriors like his brothers. He couldn’t bear the thought that perhaps he would never see his brothers alive again. Suddenly he wanted this to be a drill. He wanted Captain Boromir to lower his sword and order the men back to bed.

“Hold your fire!” Captain Boromir’s voice.

The command was repeated throughout the ranks. Anakil stopped the horse and squinted into the darkness. In the clearing, next to the bushes, lit by the circle of fire the Poet’s torches had ignited, there was no attacking army. He recognized the taller man at once, and a relieved grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Captain Faramir!” he exclaimed.

“Captain Faramir!” His shout was repeated among the soldiers, and Anakil raised his head high, proud to have been the first to identify the Ranger Captain. He tugged at the long reins, and the horse continued on the way to the stables on its own. Anakil held the reins loosely in one hand and whistled a happy tune, while at the command of Captain Boromir the defense lines withdrew, and the eastern garrison soon filled up with yawning soldiers on their way back to their tents and chattering boys collecting weapons, lost arrows and discarded shields.

“Anakil! Over here!” Anakil heard his name being shouted and scanned the crowd of men for a familiar face.

Beldil was walking along the path between the tents. He was favoring his right leg, his right arm was in a sling and his left wrist tightly bandaged. The gash one his forehead had become infected a week ago, and someone had shorn off his hair to keep it from touching the angry red scar. His hair was slowly growing back now, and Anakil was reminded of a hedgehog every time he saw his older friend.

The boy brought his horse alongside his friend and dismounted. “What are you doing out here, Beldil?”

“I’m on my way to the stables,” Beldil said. “I’m sure the Poet told you that messengers always meet at the stables?”

“Yes, he did.” Anakil let go of the horse’s reins, for the animal obediently followed him through the busy garrison. “But it’s already over. The all-clear horn was true indeed. We are not under attack. Captain Faramir has come with many wounded.”

“I know. That’s why I was able to escape from the healers’ tent. There are a lot of Rangers who need the healers attention and time more than I do.”

“What do you want to do at the stables?” Anakil asked. “You are not in the condition to fight or ride or do anything at all with your injured arms.”

“I don’t know.” Beldil shrugged. “It’s a habit, I suppose. Every time I hear the call of a battle horn, my legs want to carry me to the stables. I know I cannot be of use there right now, but at least I will be with the lads should they have to ride off, and I will not be a hindrance to the healers.” The messenger smiled and touched his forehead with his bandaged left hand. “Maybe I can scare away some enemies.”

Anakil laughed. “I am glad that there is no enemy at hand for you to scare away.” He leaned close to his friend and whispered. “You know, when I rode up behind the defense lines, I was a little frightened. I have seen drills, of course, but I have never seen the preparation for a real big battle.”

“It’s frightening, isn’t it? All those armed men in the lines, ready to kill…” Beldil smiled and put his left arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Believe me, Anakil, all of us are a little frightened while waiting for the enemy to attack. But as long as you can control your fear, it’s alright.” He pointed at the busy warriors occupying the streets. “They are all great warriors, but they are not immune to fear. They are all human beings, you know.”

“I am sure Captain Boromir is never frightened. I saw him standing in the first line. He didn’t appear frightened at all.”

“Maybe he was not. But he surely was the only one.” Beldil tightened his grip around Anakil’s shoulders, then he released him. “Captain Faramir must have met great numbers of the enemy. They brought in many wounded. All the healers from the western shore have been called to the east.”

Anakil stopped in his slow walk. “They need help,” he said. He grabbed the loose reins of the horse and slung them around Beldil’s bandaged wrist. “Get him to the stables for me, would you? I’ll go to the healers to give them a hand.”

“Anakil, wait…,” Beldil started to say something, but Anakil twinkled, carefully slapped his injured friend on the back and disappeared in the crowd of men.

 

It had been a long time since Faramir had been to Osgiliath and just as long since he had last seen his brother, and he welcomed the arm Boromir kept draped around his shoulders as they made their way through the eastern garrison to the great bridge. Many torches lit the light, and voices could be heard everywhere. The paths between the eastern tents were very much alive. Soldiers in chainmail and leather breeches, bows and heavy shields slung over their shoulders, came out of the healers’ tents where they had carried Ithilien’s wounded to commit them to the healers’ care. Many of them shouted friendly words of greeting to their two Captains walking by, and Faramir always shouted back, touched by the warm and heartfelt welcome Osgiliath’s soldiers offered him and his men. He thought of the calm, quiet nights in Ithilien, even just prior or after an attack, and shook his head at the anthill Osgiliath was compared to his small company. Once prepared for battle, it took the Osgiliath garrison some time to calm down again.

Faramir suppressed the urge to visit the healers’ tents and check on his men right now, for he knew he would only disturb the healers in doing their duty. He would check in on them later, when things had quieted down a little. He caught a glimpse of some of his healthy men, sitting with soldiers of Osgiliath at small campfires, eating, talking and laughing. They all knew their wounded were being cared for.

The garrison was less busy on the bridge. The yard of the ruin of the Great Hall was dark and empty, and Faramir stopped in his movements and drew a deep breath. “It’s good to be here,” he said.

Boromir’s arm around his shoulders tightened. “How many men did you lose out there?” he asked gently.

Faramir sighed again. “Seven,” he said. “Our scouts had followed a small band of Southrons for days. Mablung, having just returned from here with his scouting party, wanted to ambush them, but I took the command of the raid for myself. The Orcs must have been there all along, but we failed to notice them. They surprised us badly, engaged us unprepared.”

Boromir let go of his brother’s shoulders and spun him around to look him in the eyes. “You surprised us badly as well. When the horns called out, I expected Orcs charging at us out of the dark.”

Faramir smiled a little. “I hope you’re not disappointed to be confronted with a small band of tired, injured and weary Rangers instead of fighting a glorious battle with a host of Orcs?”

“You have seen the ranks. We are always prepared for battle. But I am not disappointed to go back to sleep without a fight.” Boromir grunted and swatted his brother gently on the side of the head. “It’s good to have you here, brother. We can talk in my tent over some wine and bread. You sure look like you could use something to fill your stomach with.”

Faramir felt his stomach rumble in response and didn’t object as Boromir stepped through the great gate into the ruin of the Great Hall that served as Osgiliath’s headquarters.

 

 

His hands were sticky with blood and sweat, and the strong smell of herbs in the tent was almost unbearable. All cots were occupied by wounded Rangers. Those that were able to stand were treated outside the tents, and still there was hardly enough room for those that had to lie down. It must have been a bad fight, worse than anything Anakil had seen in his young life. Some of the faces were familiar; he had seen them not long ago in the cave of Henneth Annûn. He took a look around for those of the Rangers he knew by name - Anborn, Damrod, Mablung, Darung - but they were not among the wounded.

His messenger’s shirt was splattered with blood and grime, but he did not care. One of the healers called his name and pointed to a man that had lost his right hand in the fight. Anakil nodded. He had assisted the healers often enough to know what was required of him. He cleaned his dirty hands in a bowl of warm water and closed his dripping fingers on the injured man’s arm. Two strong men grabbed the Ranger’s shoulders and legs, and the healer started to apply stitches to close the bleeding wound at the end of the arm where the hand had been. The Ranger screamed and squirmed in pain, and Anakil had to place his knee next to his hands on the man’s arm to keep him from moving.

“Hold him!” the healer commanded sharply. “We have to close the wound.”

The Ranger screamed again, then his body went limp as he lost consciousness.

The two men that had held him down let go and moved on to the next patient. Anakil only lowered his knee and continued pinning the men’s arm in a tight grip, in case his muscles should twitch uncontrolled.

“He will most probably make it,” the healer said. “The hand was severed in a clean cut. There was no poison on the blade.”

As soon as the healer was finished, Anakil let go of the arm and wiped his hands on a clean piece of cloth. “He will never fight again.”

“But he will live. Being able to fight is not everything. He will see his family again, his sons and daughters, his wife. Not all of them will be that lucky.” While he was talking, the healer moved to the next patient.

Two dark haired soldiers staggered in carrying a wounded man between them, and Anakil quickly readied a cot where they could lie him down. The wounded Ranger was unconscious. His chest was covered with a bloody bandage, and reddish spit was coming out of his mouth and nose. Anakil guessed that he had taken a stab into the lung, and suddenly he understood the words the healer had said about the man that had lost his hand. Not all of the wounded were lucky enough to be able to return home some day.

“’Kil?” one of the soldiers that had carried the Ranger asked. Anakil raised his head at the sound of the familiar voice. “’Kil, are you all right?”

“’Rion.” Anakil smiled at his oldest brother. “Of course I am all right. How is ‘Gor?”

“He’s on his way back to sleep. This was supposed to be his only night off duty in more than a week.” Anarion twinkled at his youngest brother. “And he’s cursing the day he decided to go to sleep without his left boot nearby.”

“You will be cursing more than just lack of sleep when I am finished with you, my trouble making apprentice.” Anakil recognized the deep voice immediately, and he turned around to face the Poet who had silently crept up behind him.

“What…?” he started, but a strong hand on his ear silenced him.

“Do yourself a favor and don’t speak.” The Poet twisted his ear a little, and Anakil was painfully reminded of Lieutenant Darin’s favorite spot to grab his boys while reprimanding them.

“Identify yourself as an officer of the realm, otherwise let him go, soldier!” Anarion demanded, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

“’Rion!” Anakil started to object and tried to shake his head. The hand on his ear tightened.

“I am sorry, soldier, but this boy and I have some serious matters to discuss.” The Poet bowed deeply. “We have to leave this homely place at once.” The Poet’s voice lacked any emotion.

“’Rion!” Anakil started again to calm his brother. “My brother Anarion…” He said by way of introduction. “My superior … Poet.” The pain in his ear increased to a level that made it impossible to utter a coherent sentence.

“Let him go, soldier!” Anarion demanded again, not quite ready to stand down. “If he is willing to talk to you, he will follow you on his own.”

“I will!” Anakil confirmed.

The Poet cast a look at the soldier’s sword and let go of the boy’s ear. “Lucky little bastard,” he said under his breath, as he strode on to leave the healer’s tent.

Anakil cast a grateful look in his brother’s direction and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ as he followed the messenger into the open. As soon as he had left the busy interior of the healers’ tent, the boy felt not so sure about himself any more. He heard footsteps behind him and knew without looking back that Anarion was following them, the hand still at the hilt of his sword, ready and willing to protect his youngest brother. But the Poet was also going about armed, and Anakil feared a confrontation between his eldest brother and his instructor on his behalf. Anarion was an able swordsman, but, if he could believe the rumors, for he had never seen it himself, so was the Poet.

The Poet stopped next to the great tree that cast its shadow on the healers’ tent during the heat of the days. “Would you be so kind to tell me what you’ve been doing in there?” he asked and pointed at the brightly glowing tent. Some screams and shouts could be heard coming from the inside.

“I was assisting the healers,” Anakil explained. “They brought in many wounded from Ithilien, they can use every helping hand. I know what to do, I have assisted before.”

“I recall ordering you to get back to the stables and ready the horse for a longer ride.” The Poet leaned back against the sturdy tree and folded his arms over his chest.

It was too dark to clearly make out his stern features. Anakil could see Anarion from the corner of his eyes, sitting on a fallen rock well out of earshot but within sight, his hand still caressing the hilt of his sword. For a moment he wondered if all big brothers felt obliged to ward off all harm from their younger siblings.

“Beldil brought the horse back – I hope,” Anakil tried to defend himself. “I met him on the way and gave the horse into his care.”

“Then help me solve a riddle, my trouble making apprentice.” The poet crossed his legs at his ankles. “I left you close behind the defense lines. How long, approximately, does it take to reach the stables from the place where we parted?”

Anakil shrugged. “On foot? Maybe three minutes. On horseback? Less than a minute.”

“Less than a minute,” the Poet repeated. “I left you shortly before Captain Boromir‘s commanded to hold fire. If it is a ride of less than a minute back to the stables, how have you been able to meet Beldil on the way? Beldil left the healer’s tent when the first wounded from Ithilien were brought in.” The Poet’s voice was surprisingly calm and friendly. Obviously he had decided to discuss the matter without the use of violence. “And how is it possible that I heard your voice shouting Captain Faramir’s name from the last line of defense?”

Anakil said nothing. He lowered his head and stared at his feet.

“I have started to wonder if it is a habit of yours to ignore orders sometimes,” the Poet continued, and his voice was still friendly and casual. “Not three weeks ago you left your post. You lied. You stole something. You received your punishment for what you did in the past, but today you did something similar. You left your post again.”

Anakil’s head shot up. “No, I didn’t!” he protested.

“Yes, you did, my young apprentice. Maybe you are really not aware of it, but you did.” The Poet unsheathed his sword and rammed it into the ground at his feet. Anakil saw Anarion unsheathe his sword as well, ready to fight. The Poet casually leaned on his great sword. “You are still thinking like a boy,” he explained. “You heard the call of the horns, and all you could think of was getting out of the tent to assist the warriors.” The Poet pointed down at his blade. “But you are not a boy any more, Anakil. You will be a messenger. Do you know why the carriers of words always meet at the stables at the call of the horns?”

The boy shook his head. His bloody messenger’s shirt smelled of the herbs the healers had used in the tent. The stench was disgusting.

“We ready ourselves and some horses and await tidings of how the battle is turning. If we are losing the day, all of us leave the garrison on the fastest horses to get help. If we are winning the day, we are the ones who bring the news of the victory to the Steward and the Lords of the realm. We don’t assist in the defense, my young apprentice. We are those that turn away from the garrison if the defense is failing. That may not sound heroic to your young ears, but it has to be done, and we are the ones who do it.”

“I didn’t know that,” Anakil whispered. “I swear, I didn’t know that. I was a little curious, that’s why I rode up behind the lines on my way back to the stables. I swear, I didn’t want to leave my post when I entrusted the horse to Beldil’s care and left for the healers’ tent. I wasn’t even aware that I had a post. My intention was to help the wounded.” He looked at the Poet and didn’t care that his hoarse voice was pleading. “Please do not hit me, please do not twist my ear again, and please do not banish me from the messengers. I will never act like a stupid boy again. I promise!”

“You still have a lot to learn about the ways of written and spoken words,” the Poet said and put a hand on Anakil’s shoulder. He pointed at Anarion, who was watching his every move, his sword ready in his hand. “This fair night, you have been luckier than you perhaps deserve. Without your very persuasive brother over there, we would have had this conversation with my hand on your ear – or maybe even both my hands on both of your ears. But I am not in the mood to fight one of our own warriors this evening.”

“Anarion doesn’t like it when I get hurt,” Anakil said. “He and Anagor even rescued me from Lieutenant Darin’s claws when I got back from Ithilien.”

“How many brothers do I have to face, should I accidentally hurt you?” the Poet asked.

“Anarion and Anagor are the only brothers I have, and they both serve in Osgiliath,” Anakil said. “They look very much the same; you will think that there is only one of them. They are identical twins.”

“That is a manageable threat.” The Poet pulled his sword free from the ground and sheathed the weapon. “Convince your brothers – both of them - that my duty is to teach you the ways of messengers and words and that my honor forbids seriously hurting those entrusted to my care. I expect you to report to the stables in five minutes.”

“Thank you!” Anakil said, and he meant it. He bowed to the messenger and sprinted over to where Anarion was waiting for him.

 

 

The circular interior of the Great Hall was lit by flickering torches, and Faramir felt a sense of awe wash over him as he gazed through the holes in the walls that had been doors a long time ago. This was a place of history, of legends, of tales of great victories and great pain, of the ancient might and glory of Gondor. Stories he had devoured in his childhood and teenage years came to his mind, and he tried to imagine the magnificent building as it must have looked like in its prime, beautiful and proud.

Boromir took one of the torches off the wall and kicked open the heavy iron wing of the western entrance to the Great Hall with the tip of his boot. The pale moon lit the hall of the kings and the pile of debris that covered the ancient thrones of Isildur and Anárion. Even though he had been here before, Faramir almost bowed in respect to the ruin. Facing the very place where the kings of old had ruled side by side, he suddenly felt very small and weak. He passed one hand over his eyes and followed his brother to one of the two tents amidst the rubble of the hall.

Boromir did not seem affected at all by the glory and history of this place. Faramir had to remind himself that the ruin of the Great Hall was Boromir’s home in the field, a place his brother spent as much time in as he did in the cave of Henneth Annûn. Boromir had never been prone to let his thoughts dwell in the past. His brother was a man of the present, a man of action.

Boromir entered his personal tent, lit a bright lamp and extinguished the torch. Faramir discarded his sword and bow and sat down on one of the two chairs at his brother’s wooden table. Boromir reached under his cot and came up with a bottle of wine. He filled two cups and lowered himself on the second chair. The brothers smiled at each other and touched cups in a silent salute.

Faramir sipped at his wine and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “It’s been three years since I was here, and nothing has changed,” he stated. “Nothing at all. Not even you.”

“You haven’t changed much as well.” Boromir set down his cup and laughed. “Did you expect one of us to change, brother?”

Faramir shrugged. “I guess I did. I thought that three years and countless fights would change the appearance and bearing of a man.”

“I have added a scar or two to my body, but scars do not bother me much. Gondor is still strong, and as long as Gondor doesn’t change, I will not change either.”

“How strong is Gondor?” Faramir inquired. “How strong are Cair Andros, Osgiliath, the City Guard? The Ithilien Rangers are fierce warriors, and even though their numbers are small, they do not surrender hope before the growing strength of the enemy. But my men know that, should the enemy decide to conquer Ithilien, we can only delay them a little, we cannot defeat them. Our numbers are decreasing, many of our scouts are never seen again. I have to ask again: How strong is Gondor, Boromir.”

“Strong enough, brother,” Boromir said firmly. “Strong enough.”

“Mablung told me Osgiliath is aware of the enemy’s increased movement in the last weeks. Have you talked to the Steward and the Council?”

“I have sent messages, but I haven’t been there to discuss the matter in person. I will leave for the city soon, when things here have quieted down a little. As long as we do not know what the enemy is planning in the woods of Ithilien, I am not willing to exchange my place at my men’s side for a seat in the council chamber.” Boromir stood and reached under his cot once more to produce a loaf of bread. “Faramir, you look weary. We haven’t met in a long time, but you cannot hide that you are hungry and in need of sleep.” He handed his brother the bread. “Eat and get some rest. You have accomplished enough for today. The council of Osgiliath will meet shortly after sunrise. There will be enough time to discuss matters of war in the morning.”

“I have to take a look at the injured first, then I will be more than happy to let you tuck me in.” Boromir chuckled, and Faramir smiled while he stuffed some bread into his mouth. He had neither slept nor eaten in more than a day, and he was tired indeed, even though he would never admit it to his men. But the two sons of the Steward had always been honest with each other, had always shared their thoughts, no matter if they were of different opinion and how long they had been apart. Faramir knew he could trust his brother. He reached across the table to clasp Boromir’s hand and said: “Thank you,” even though he was well aware that there was no need for words of thanks between brothers.  



	15. The 20th of June Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

XV

Darkness.

The sound of two bare feet, shuffling on the ground. A blanket touching the cold stone. The sound of breathing, fast, interrupted by small sobs. Two large, almost colourless eyes, full of tears, bright spots in the darkness. A small voice, an urgent whisper: “Bomir?”

“Faramir?”

Boromir’s eyes shot open. For a moment he thought himself to be in his childhood room in Minas Tirith, a small room equipped with a bed, a desk, a drawer and his wooden treasure chest, where he had kept the sticks, that in his early childhood plays had been mighty weapons, and later on the small wooden sword his father had given him for his fifth birthday. For a moment he expected to see his two year old brother standing next to his bed, the long black hair tousled, the eyes heavy with sleep and wet with tears, a blanket clutched in both chubby hands. His eyes searched for the child not old enough to pronounce a three syllable name, that had come to sleep in his seven year old brother’s bed, for he had had a bad dream.

There was no darkness. There was no child. There was not even a room.

Boromir’s eyes focused on the roof of his tent in the Osgiliath garrison. The sun had not risen above the horizon yet, but the first light of day bathed the tent in an eerie twilight. A soft sigh escaped his lips, as he folded his arms behind his head to give his mind some more time to get rid of the dream and wake up.

Slow regular breathing that was not his own reminded him that he was not alone. He slowly turned his head to look at the man lying next to him. Boromir smiled as he remembered returning from the last check on the watches to find his brother lying fully clothed on a mattress next to his cot, fast asleep. He had pulled off Faramir’s boots and covered him with a light blanket before retiring for the night.

Boromir studied his brother’s face, relaxed and peaceful in his sleep. Beneath the dark shade of beard, the unruly short hair and the thin lines life had left around his eyes, there was still a shadow of the two year old that had climbed into his bed in the middle of the night to escape the demons of his dreams. Boromir knew Faramir had never stopped dreaming, and he was glad that in this night his brother seemed to have found the rest he so desperately needed.

“Faramir,” he said gently and reached out to touch his brother’s shoulder.

Faramir’s eyes fluttered open, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Good morning, brother,” he said and pushed some hair out of his eyes.

“Good morning.” Boromir returned the smile. “The sun rises to welcome a fair day.”

 

 

Heavy pressure on his chest woke Anakil from a deep slumber. His eyes shot open, and there was a big, brown, dirty boot placed squarely just below his throat, pinning him into the mattress. The boy tried to move, but the boot’s heel pressed down forcefully, disturbing his breathing for a moment. Anakil slowly raised his eyes to see a well-known face far above him, the rugged features set into a grim frown.

“Good morning, Anborn,” he gasped and tried to wiggle out from under the boot.

“Good morning, troublemaker,” Anborn replied gravely and kept his boot in place, obviously not ready to let the boy go that easily.

“I have not been in trouble for at least…,” Anakil paused to guess the time, “…five hours, so would you please let me go?”

Anborn seemed to think about this statement for a moment, and Anakil seized the opportunity. He pulled his legs to his body and with one forceful movement kicked his bent knees just below the hollow of Anborn’s knee. The kick was far too feeble to seriously harm a tall man like Anborn, but the Ranger did not see it coming and lessened the pressure on Anakil’s chest in surprise. Anakil rolled out from under the restraining boot and jumped to his feet, kicking first against Anborn’s raised boot with his left foot, then pushing hard against his shoulders with both hands. Anborn lost his balance and crashed down face first onto the cot where Anakil had lain a moment before.

Anakil put his bare foot on Anborn’s back and applied some pressure. “Welcome to Osgiliath,” he said.

Anborn rolled on his back and put his head on Anakil’s pillow, his dirty boots hanging over the edge of the cot. He frowned at Anakil for a moment, then the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement.

Anakil removed his foot and stretched out a hand to help the Ranger to his feet. “No offence taken?” he asked. “My lord?” he teased.

“No offence taken, troublemaker,” Anborn said and started to laugh while he took the offered hand and let the boy pull him up. “That was quick indeed.” The Ranger pointed at the messenger’s shirt that lay neatly folded next to Anakil’s cot. “You are a real messenger now?”

Anakil nodded and touched the shirt with his fingertips. “Yes, I am. Captain Boromir and Captain Faramir have been very kind.”

“Told you, troublemaker.” Anborn put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed firmly. “It’s not easy to find you in this – city of a camp.” He grunted. “It surely takes ages to know your way around this maze of streets and tents and ruins. I did stumble across the boys’ quarters, but the boys claimed they did not know your whereabouts and advised me to look for you in the mountains far away, in the kingdom of the Dwarfs. One of the messengers told me where to find you.”

“The boys called me King of the Dwarves sometimes.” Anakil sat down on the cot and pulled on his boots. He wasn’t a boy any more; it didn’t matter now what the boys used to call him.  
“But I am a messenger now – or I will be one day.”

“I met your instructor. A strange fellow, reminded me of a scarecrow. Didn’t even tell me his name.” Anborn shook his head. “There is a lot of talk that some of the messengers are…strange… different, but this guy…” He grunted and shook his head again. “How do you get along with him?”

“You met the Poet? He’s quite alright. He knows a lot about words. He taught me much already.”

“Enough to keep you out of trouble, troublemaker?”

Anakil smiled and pulled the messenger’s shirt over his head. “Not yet,” he confessed. “But we are working on it.”

Anborn grunted again and put his arm around Anakil’s shoulders. “Today, you will come with me. Your scarecrow Poet allowed me to take you to the practice ground to teach you some tricks with the sword. As long as the council is in session, Captain Faramir has no need of me, and I am not on scouting duty today.”

“Can I get some breakfast first?”

 

 

Beldil did not like mornings at all. He hated getting up early when he did not have to, but it was impossible to ignore the noise in the healers’ tent and continue sleeping. He felt quite fine, he could get up and walk about the garrison, but there was not much he could do with his right arm in a sling and his left wrist bandaged. He needed help just to eat, dress and clean himself. He felt useless, a burden to everyone, and he hated being useless.

The garrison had calmed down remarkably fast after the excitement of the night, and except for the busy healers’ tents, the soldiers were back to every day’s business.

Beldil left the healers’ tent in search of some of his fellow Rangers who had arrived during the night, but they were nowhere to be found. The messenger guessed they were either still asleep after their exhausting journey to Osgiliath, or they were already up and on patrol in the surrounding wood. The soldiers of Osgiliath were better equipped and of greater strength than the small band of Rangers that lived east of the river Anduin, but Captain Faramir and Captain Boromir knew there were no better scouts to be found than the men of Ithilien.

The messenger limped over the great bridge to the western shores, and he noticed that none of the Captains and only a few Lieutenants were about. The sun had almost reached its zenith; but it was highly possible that the officers were still conferring about last nights events in the council tent of Osgiliath.

The worn cloak of a Ranger was draped over the wooden fence that encircled the western training ground, and Beldil squinted in the bright sunlight to make out the faces of the men moving about the dusty sand. Most of them were soldiers of Osgiliath practising their ability with the sword; tall, strong men, naked to the waist, their bodies glistening with sweat and smeared with dust.

One of the tall men was working with a small and slender soldier, a young man with the bearing and body of a boy. The boy was stripped to the waist as well, and an angry red scar marred his right upper arm. He was wielding a short but superior crafted sword in his right hand, trying to break the defence of the taller man, but the man had no trouble keeping him at a safe distance.

Beldil smiled and rested his arms carefully on the crude wooden fence. “Good morning, Anborn,” he shouted. “Good morning, Anakil.”

Anborn turned around and kept the boy at bay without even looking at him. “Beldil!” he shouted and bent his head in greeting. “I would not call it morning any more at this time of the day. You look better than last time I saw you, but still not good enough for my liking.”

“Thank you very much.” Beldil smiled and sat down on the bench. “I will be back on full duty in a few weeks.”

 

 

Anborn was still looking over his shoulder to talk to Beldil, and Anakil saw an advantage for his next attack. He raised his sword to drive it through Anborn’s defences with all the strength he could muster. Anborn could not have seen it coming, not even out of the corner of his eyes, but he must have sensed the attack, for he raised his long sword, and there was the ugly sound of steel meeting steel. Anakil tried to free his sword and continue the attack, but Anborn kept his blade locked with the boy’s and circled it down and up again with great speed. The short sword was knocked out of Anakil’s hand to drop to the dusty floor more than six feet away.

“Ouch!” Anakil shouted and rubbed his right hand.

“Never attack with anger and force alone, especially when your opponent appears to be faster, more experienced, older and stronger than you,” Anborn said, walked over and stooped to pick up the short sword. “Never stop using your mind. Never underestimate anyone. That I am not looking at you does not mean I am not paying close attention.”

“He has your weapon, Anakil,” Beldil said. “You are dead.”

“He was not looking at me,” Anakil protested. ”He could not have seen my intentions,”

“I saw the sun’s reflection on the blade of your sword moving on the ground,” Anborn replied and smiled. “You should try to circle around me, to get the sun out of your face. When you have the sun at your back, you have an advantage over your enemy. That does not help you when you fight against Orcs, for Orcs only fight at night, but there are a lot of Southrons in Ithilien these days, and they don’t fear the sun.” Anborn tossed the boy his sword. “Let’s try again, troublemaker. Try to turn me around. You have to make me leave my chosen position. If I have to make one step in my defence, continue attacking to force me to keep moving. Do you understand?”

“I do. But you are taller and stronger than me. How can I force you to step aside? You can keep me at bay just with the greater reach of your arm and sword.”

“You have to work that out for yourself.”

Anakil grunted and gripped the handle of his sword firmly with both hands.

“You have to surprise him,” Beldil advised. “You surprised that Orc you killed while defending me.”

“That Orc did not know I was there.”

“Then try something different with me.” A small smile touched the corners of Anborn’s mouth. “Maybe you should not try to behead me from behind.”

Anakil snorted in reply and rubbed his scarred upper arm.

“Are you in pain?” Anborn asked, concerned.

“I’m not.” Anakil shook his head and raised his sword. “It just itches a little. Let’s start again.”

Anborn kept his sword lowered, the tip pointing to the ground, his shoulders relaxed and his posture at ease.

Anakil moved his sword through the air in slow circles, gripping the handle with both hands, unsure what to do. He had never had lessons in swordfighting. Of course he knew how to use a sword in general, he had watched the warriors on the training ground as often as possible in the past, but trying to move like a warrior proved to be far more complicated than watching. He felt Beldil’s interested gaze, and he was almost embarrassed by Anborn’s lack of preparation and defence.

Never attack with anger. Anakil was angry now. He wanted Anborn to respect him, not to tease him like he would tease one of the boys. He was not a boy any more.

Never stop using your mind. Anborn’s sword was down. He expected an attack to his head or torso, an attack which he could ward off easily by raising his sword and meeting Anakil’s short blade. Anakil did not meet the Ranger’s expectations.

He shouted a high pitched war cry, raised his sword high over his head with the right hand and jumped two steps forwards. Anborn’s sword stayed down, his eyes followed the boy’s moving arm, ready to end the attack swiftly whenever the sword started to drop down on him. But the sword did not move downwards. Anakil let himself drop to his knees instead, swinging his sword in a circle to the left to knock away the lower part of Anborn’s blade and penetrate his defences.

The tip of Anakil’s sword touched Anborn’s belt, and the boy howled in triumph. “Got you! You are dead!”

Anborn stepped back to give the boy room to scramble to his feet. “You had me,” he admitted. “And you heeded my advice to use your mind. You have neither the strength nor the advantage of reach to use, so you used the only advantage your small body gives you over the opponent: An attack not from above but from below.”

Anakil smiled proudly.

“But you would be dead nevertheless.” Beldil pointed out from the wooden fence.

Anakil sheathed his sword. “Why? I had him. He is dead.”

“I am dead,” Anborn confirmed.

“On this training ground, you have won,“ Beldil explained. “But imagine yourself on a battlefield. On a battlefield, there is not just one opponent, there are thousands of them, and they are everywhere. When you lose your sword, you are dead. And when you are knocked off your feet, you are dead as well. On your knees, you are an easy kill for every enemy that happens to look your way. There are not many ways to defend yourself while you are down. Every blow from above is a killing blow. I strongly advise you to never go down to your knees in a battlefield. Not if you wish to survive the day.”

Anakil dropped his head. “I thought it to be a perfect idea.”

“A perfect idea for the training ground. We all die thousands of deaths here. Better here than in battle.” Anborn put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Try to imagine that we are two soldiers in the chaos of battle. Battle is not over when one of us is defeated, so you better never manoeuvre yourself into a dangerous position. Let’s try again.”

 

 

The council had been in session for hours.

Faramir let his gaze wander from face to face, carefully looking at each of Osgiliath’s Lieutenants in turn. He did not know those men well, but he had come to respect them in those few times he had joined the council of Osgiliath in the past. He did not like the concern and weariness furrowing the men’s brows, tightening their mouths, narrowing their eyes, for he knew their faces mirrored his. His gaze came to rest on his brother, and even Boromir could not hide the dark shadows the strain of uncertainty and command had cast over his proud face.

The council tent of Osgiliath was lit by many lamps and torches, and unlike the council of Henneth Annûn that consisted of Faramir and his two Lieutenants and was held wherever and whenever it suited the three of them, it was a place of a quiet dignity and privacy.

The council session was over at last, there was nothing left to discuss, but the officers remained in their simple chairs around the large wooden table for a long moment, relishing the peace of the flickering torchlight and gathering their strength to emerge from the Great Hall with a smile on their lips and a kind word for every single warrior in their companies. They were not allowed to give into the despair and uncertainty that had started to take over their hearts, not in front of their men who depended on them and looked up to them for strength.

A large map of Ithilien covered the heavy table. The hills, rivers, woods and plains were marked, but their worth was measured only by strategic means. Nobody cared about the small, innocent beings that called those places home. Nobody went there for the fresh air, the quiet, the peace, the loneliness, the fertile earth. The most beautiful garden of Gondor had been reduced to a playground of scouts and armies a long time ago. Even Henneth Annûn, the most beautiful place that was to be found in northern Ithilien, had been turned into no more than a secret garrison, a hiding place of armed forces.

It came to Faramir’s mind that lovers should meet below the waterfall, to watch the sun set from behind the curtain of droplets and enjoy the display of colours, cherishing each others company and shared love. For a moment he wondered if he would live to see Henneth Annûn at peace, if he would take his lady there. His lady - not a lady his father would choose for him to marry - whoever she might be, whenever he might meet her, preferably in a time of peace.

Lieutenant Darin, one of the most experienced warriors on Boromir’s staff, was the first to rise and leave the tent. Slowly, others followed, until the two sons of the Steward were left alone in the spacious tent.

Faramir rested his elbows on the table and rubbed both eyes with the palms of his hands. The hours in the dark council tent, the grave discussions and the thought of all those men of Ithilien that had died in the Orcs’ attack in the woods and later on in the tents of the healers gave him a headache. Some of them had been mere boys that had not even reached their twentieth year.

“Stop brooding about things that are not yours to change, brother,” Boromir said gently. “Your men are soldiers. They know that death is always a mere breath away. You cannot protect every single one of them.”

Faramir raised his head to meet his brother’s gaze. “And yet I should be able to do that.” He did not ask how his brother could guess his exact thoughts. They knew each other well; years of separation had not managed to estrange them. Faramir was glad that there was one single human being in the world in front of whom he did not have to hide any of his thoughts and feelings, for even though Boromir did not understand everything that was in his younger brother’s mind, he was the only one who cared nevertheless and did not mind listening from time to time.

Faramir knew his men trusted and loved him, but how could he share his mind’s sorrows with them, those men who fought beside him, those men who needed all the hope that was left in Gondor, who had no use for doubt and despair?

“How many more died tonight?” Boromir asked.

“Seven in the woods, ten in the healers’ tent. That’s almost every tenth man that set out from Henneth Annûn.” Faramir rubbed his eyes again. “And we do not even know where this army of Orcs is heading, what they are up to. We even do not know where they are right now. They could make a move on northern Ithilien tonight, and we wouldn’t know until it was too late for Mablung and my men.”

“The scouts will find them, Faramir!” Boromir assured him. “There are no better scouts than the men of Ithilien in all of Gondor. They will find them, and two nights from now, we will move out with many men from Osgiliath and defeat them. So stop brooding and rest as much as you can. Osgiliath is a far safer place than Henneth Annûn. This garrison is well guarded. More than two thousand men are at my command now. As I told you yesterday, Gondor’s number might be decreasing, but Gondor is still strong enough.”

“Gondor will be strong, as long as it can depend on you, Boromir.” Faramir pushed back his chair, straightened his shoulders and rose to his feet. “I won’t claim more of your time, I know you have urgent business to attend to.” He silenced his brother with a wave of his hand. “No, I won’t accompany you. I don’t intend to interfere with your command. By your leave, Captain General, I will keep command of the Ithilien Rangers, and the Ithilien scouts won’t be back before nightfall.”

“You have authority over your company, Captain. You are welcome to accompany me whenever it pleases you, but I know that you have duties of your own.” Boromir pushed a hand through his hair and started to extinguish the torches. “Stop brooding, Faramir!” he said again. “It is a fair day indeed. Let the sun touch that pale face of yours.”

“You don’t have to throw me out. I am leaving on my own.” Faramir smiled and reached for his cloak that he had discarded over the backrest of his chair. “I have to talk to Anborn, and I have to see to my wounded.”

“Will I see you for dinner?” Boromir asked. “I always dine in my tent, and I would welcome some company.”

“I will be there, brother,” Faramir promised. “Until then.” He bowed his head, grabbed one of the last burning torches and left the tent.

 

 

It was quite entertaining to watch Anborn and Anakil practice swordplay. The boy was a quick study and eager to learn, but he was too inexperienced with the weapon to be a match for even the most inexperienced warrior in Gondor’s army and did not come close to forcing an expert swordsman like Anborn to take evasive actions once. But the youth never tired in attacking, never complained when he had to bend down to pick up his sword from the dust of the training ground, where Anborn had let it fly once more, to try another attack.

Anborn was a patient teacher, and even though he did not, as always, talk more than absolutely necessary, the boy started to improve. Anakil did not spare his curses and colourful battle cries, and soon more spectators gathered at the fence around the training ground to watch the performance of the Ranger and the boy.

Observing Anakil’s almost not-existent abilities in swordplay, Beldil started to admire the boy for his courage to attack an Orc from behind to save someone he had never met before. The messenger’s partly healed wounds itched and burned, and the early afternoon’s sun shone unmerciful on his shorn and stubbly head, but Beldil realized that he had been luckier than he had first thought himself to be. If the last Orc had sensed or heard Anakil creeping up from behind and turned around to face this new opponent, Anakil and he would now be rotting with his horse in the wood of Ithilien.

The boy’s naked chest was wet with sweat and dusty from the dirt in the training ground, and the dust that clung to his face made him appear pale and sick. His dark eyes glistened with concentration and determination, and the polished blade of his short sword sparkled in the bright sunlight.

“Have you had anything to fill your stomach with since breakfast, my young apprentice?” a high and somewhat familiar voice asked from somewhere inside the gathered crowd.

Beldil turned around and saw the tall form of the Poet make his way through the watching soldiers towards the fence.

Anborn turned his head to see who had interrupted them. Anakil used this moment of distraction to bend down and scoop up a fistful of dirt with his left hand. When Anborn fixed his gaze on him again, the boy tossed the dirt into the air, and under the cover of dirt and dust he attacked. Anborn parried the blow, but his movement of defence was late, for he could not see well, and he had to move two steps backwards to keep his balance and disarm the boy with his usual ease.

“You stepped back!” Anakil shouted and crouched to pick up his sword from the ground. “I had you! You stepped back! Two steps!” He raised his short sword over his head with an unintelligible cry of triumph, and the spectators answered with a deafening cheer.

Anborn bowed his head in mocking defeat and offered Anakil his sword with both hands. “I stepped back,” he confirmed. “That’s all I expected from you today. You found a way to drive me into defence for a second. Today’s lesson is finished.” The Ranger put his hand on the boy’s dirty shoulder. “You did well.”

Anakil held his head high while he sheathed his sword and pulled his shirt over his head.

The Poet waited for him at the fence next to Beldil. The crowd of spectators started to dissolve quickly, now that the Ranger’s lesson was finished. “We will continue with your lessons tomorrow at first light,” the old messenger announced. “Tomorrow you will have to fight me, and even though I am a greater expert in the use of words, I assure you, I have some experience with the sword as well. Eager and willing as you appear to be, you nevertheless will have to improve to force me to step back in defence.”

Anakil smiled. “Of course, my lord.”

Beldil leaned over and whispered in Anakil’s ear. “Never underestimate the Poet, Anakil. I never saw it with my own eyes, but I have heard talk that the Poet used to spar with Lord Boromir before he became Captain General of Gondor. There are rumours that the Captain General did not win all of those fights.”

“I might be old, but I am graced with a good hearing, Beldil, messenger of Ithilien,” the Poet said sternly. “You should pay no attention to the embellished tales that flourish in the army.”

“Then it is not true, my lord?” Anakil asked, disappointment in his voice.

The Poet was almost as tall as Captain Boromir, and Beldil could well imagine that in his prime the gaunt and lanky man had been a formidable swordsman.

“There is no truth in it,” the Poet confirmed. “I never crossed swords with Captain Boromir. I used to cross swords with his father, our Lord Steward, though.”

Anakil opened his mouth in surprise and did not close it for a while.

The Poet smiled a strange smile.

Anborn picked up his dark cloak from the wooden fence and bowed slightly to the Poet. “I give this young man back into your care,” he said and started to clean his dusty sword on the corner of his cloak.

“I am very much obliged to you, for your time and everything you taught my young apprentice of the Anduin today, Anborn,” the Poet said and bowed deeply. “I will, should the occasion arise, pay back the favour.”

“It was my pleasure.” Anborn bowed again and turned to Anakil. “I have to report to duty soon. Take care of yourself, troublemaker.” He tousled Anakil’s dusty hair, nodded at Beldil and strode away.

Beldil smiled at Anakil, bowed to the Poet and left the training ground as well. Standing in the hot sun of the training ground for hours had tired him, and he longed for his comfortable cot in the healers’ tent on the eastern shore.

The messenger limped slowly along the eastern shore of the Anduin, passing the ruins of the quays that had not been in use for centuries. The single, partly rebuilt quay was busy with soldiers. Two ships were docked, a small trader from the south and a tall merchant ship whose banner Beldil did not recognize, but which had to call the far south home as well. The soldiers were busy unloading wooden barrels that contained oil for lamps and torches, and Beldil thought that he had caught a glimpse of wine barrels as well.

He crossed the great ramp of stone that led up to the arch of the great bridge and slowly walked along the northern street that ran along the parapet close to the first row of buildings. The northern street was the shortest way to the kitchens and dining halls, and therefore the soldiers had cleared it of all debris and stones from the ruins nearby. A pleasant smell emanated from the kitchens and reminded Beldil that he had not had lunch yet. But he was not in the mood to join the off duty soldiers in one of the halls, for he knew that he would get a meal in the healers’ tent without waiting in a long queue until it was his turn.

The long walk across the bridge was exhausting in the heat, and he stopped between the third and forth pier to lean over the parapet and stare down at the wide and shallow waters of the Anduin below, sparkling and glistening in the sun, some flecks of foam dancing merrily before disappearing in the irregular waves of the river.

Beldil needed only a few minutes of rest, then he continued his slow walk to the eastern shore. The eastern part of the garrison was far busier than the western shore. The messenger caught a glimpse of Captain Faramir who left one of the healers’ tents and entered another. It was tempting to call out the Captain’s name and talk to him, but Beldil reckoned that the Captain was very busy after the events of last night and decided to leave him alone. The messenger continued on his way to his cot to get some rest and shelter from the heat of the day.

 

 

There were many affairs the commander of the garrison had to oversee in person, and at some point during the afternoon Boromir almost regretted that he had not tried to persuade Faramir to accompany him on his duty. It was the second half of June, one of the hottest and most unpleasant months of the year. Even though they had been lucky that it had been reasonably dry this year, and therefore there were no problems with mosquitoes in the shallow water of the river, the heat still proved to be a problem that was easily underestimated.

They had cleaned out and repaired some of the less damaged buildings in order to use them as stables, but those buildings had been living quarters for human beings before, ill equipped to house a large number of animals. While the lack of windows and the dark interior helped to keep the animals warm in winter, it was difficult to have enough breathable and bearable air in the buildings in summer. The air did circulate through the few windows, but not well enough, and the tightly packed animals were uncomfortable and edgy.

This afternoon, one of the heavy working horses had lost its temper and had lashed out at one of the boys. The boy had to be brought to the healers’ tent with four broken ribs and a broken arm. It had taken four older boys to secure the nervous animal and lock it in one of the few closed stalls of the stables. The Warden of the stables had hoped that a few hours rest would calm down the animal, but even a walk around the garrison with one of the tall and strong messengers had not improved the animal’s state of mind.

Boromir had been summoned to the stables and was standing in front of the wooden prison that housed the nervous horse. It took only seconds to understand why the Warden had called him to decide whether the animal should be kept or killed. It was a big, brown, remarkably ugly animal, with a big head and a powerful body. It kept his hindquarters to the closed door of his stalls, and once every ten or twenty seconds it forcefully kicked out, his heavy hooves thundering against the sturdy wood.

Boromir exchanged a few words of greeting with the Warden, and at the sound of voices the animal turned its head to stare at the origin of the sound. Boromir could see that its eyes were white rimmed and its yellow teeth bared.

“We have never had problems with him before,” the Warden explained. “He is one of our strongest and most gentle animals, or he was until about two weeks ago. I could let the smallest boys handle him alone, for he has never disobeyed a command before. But when he returned with that troublemaking boy from Ithilien some weeks ago, something in him snapped. I cannot explain what happened to him, for I am sure Anakil treated him well, so I can only blame the heat. And today, he almost killed one of the boys, and for three hours now he tried to kick apart his stalls. I have never seen a gentle horse turn violent like that before without reason.”

To emphasize the Warden’s words, the animal rose on his hind legs and neighed.

“Do we need him?” Boromir asked.

“Desperately,” the Warden explained. “Working horses are only bred on farms near the Anduin these days, and they are seldom sold, especially to the army, for the farmers need most of the horses for themselves. We have ten of them in all of Osgiliath, but there is work for twenty.”

The horse’s hooves thundered against the wood.

“We cannot just kill him,” Boromir decided, wishing for his brother’s counsel, who had always possessed a better way of dealing with animals than he would ever acquire. “Have one of the boys talk to him. Maybe the sound of a friendly voice will calm him down eventually. If we cannot afford to lose him, we have to determine what is wrong with him. Should he calm down enough to pose no threat to the boys, let him have a bath in the river, keep him out of the heat as long as possible. Ask the boy Anakil what happened to him in Ithilien, maybe he can help.”

“He is just a horse, my lord,” the Warden objected.

“He does important work in this garrison, as any soldier does, and he deserves to be treated accordingly,” Boromir answered. “If there is no change with his behaviour within a week from now, send word to me, and I will reconsider.”

The horse’s hooves thundered against the wood.

“Yes, my lord.” The Warden sighed. “I hope the wood will withstand his hooves for a week.”

Boromir carefully stepped closer to the stand and raised both hands in a gesture of peace. “Hello, boy!” he said. “What is his name?” he asked the Warden.

“I don’t know,” the Warden said. “He is always called old boy, but I doubt that it is his given name. I will have to ask the older boys.”

“Hello, old boy,” Boromir repeated and stepped close enough to be able to touch the wooden door and the iron bars of the small window that was the only opening in the wood.

“Be careful, my lord,” the Warden warned. “He is fast and strong.”

“What happened to you, old boy?” Boromir continued quietly.

The horse turned around, neighed and snapped at the iron bars with its yellow teeth. Its hot breath brushed against Boromir’s forehead. The captain jumped back hastily, even though the animal could not reach him. “Find Anakil!” he said shortly. “Keep the smaller boys away from this stand. Whoever is caught teasing this horse has to answer to me personally.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The horse turned around and kicked against the door once more. The sound of hooves thundering against wood mixed with the call of a trumpet from the outside. It was the call that summoned the Captain of the garrison. The horse lashed out again, and at the same time the trumpet repeated its call.

“Excuse me. I must leave.” Boromir’s words were barely understandable, for the horse reared and neighed.

“My lord,” the Warden said, as the trumpet called again.

The trumpet of Osgiliath joined in, to call the garrison to arms.

Boromir cursed as he hurried out of the stables. He joined the men of Osgiliath that poured forth from houses and tents in answer to the trumpet’s call, the call to arms for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

 

 

The trumpet called for the Captain.

The trumpet of Osgiliath called to arms.

Both calls were repeated from the western shore.

The healers had cut away the clothes remaining on the Ranger's upper body to clean and bandage the many cuts the man had suffered on his chest and face. The Ranger protested vehemently, claiming that all those cuts originated from his hasty retreat through the underbrush of Ithilien and were nothing to worry about. The healers nodded politely, smiled at the patient’s words and continued to dab bad smelling herbs on the shallow cuts.

Faramir folded his arms across his chest to keep himself from fidgeting with his hands. “Stop complaining, Margil,” he said mildly. “They are just doing what they have to do.”

“Captain…the enemy…!” Margil protested, out of breath.

“The garrison is alerted,” Faramir said. “We will be ready to defend ourselves.” His voice was calm and friendly, he had learned early in his childhood to keep his thoughts hidden from the outer world. A man that wore his feelings on his sleeve would not have done well at the court of the Steward. “Captain Boromir has two thousand men at his command. Osgiliath is strong.”

Margil stopped complaining.

The trumpets called again.

The tent flap was cast aside, and Captain Boromir was brought into the tent by one of the boys. The boy looked terrified as he bowed to both Captains and disappeared.

“Faramir?” Boromir just asked, as he settled down on an empty cot to catch his breath. His hair and clothes were dishevelled; he had obviously run through a part of the garrison to answer the call.

“Margil,” Faramir said. “Tell the Captain what you told me.”

“My lord,” Margil started and winced in pain as one of the healers accidentally opened one of the deeper cuts on his chest. “I was on scouting duty, and I followed the path Captain Faramir and our company had taken to get here to determine what had become of the large host of Orcs we fought on that day, and I stumbled upon an army. An army not of Orcs, but an army of Southrons that can move in the sunlight. I counted five different banners, but there could be more. I guess that their numbers count at least three thousand armed men. They follow the route we took to reach Osgiliath. I had to hurry back here through the underbrush, for if they do not stray from their path and continue at great marching speed, they will arrive at the bridge within half an hour, my lord.”

“Southrons!” Boromir balled his fists. “Cursed Southrons.” He rose to his feet and clasped the Ranger’s arm. “Margil, let the healers finish with your injuries, then report to whatever duty you are able to perform. If they tell you not to fight, you will heed their advice.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Boromir let go of the Ranger’s arm and left the tent. Faramir smiled down at his Ranger and followed his brother into the sunlight.

The defence lines of Osgiliath had already formed on the eastern perimeter of the garrison. There was no need for torches to bring light to the underbrush, for it was late in the afternoon and the sun had only started its slow descent towards the horizon across a clear blue sky. Most of the men had been awake, dressed and armed; therefore it took little more than half the time to ready the garrison for battle than during the night.

Boromir stopped in his fast stride to let his brother catch up with him. “Will you join your command with mine, brother?” he asked.

“I would be honoured to fight at your side,” Faramir answered.

A small smile touched Boromir’s lips, as he clasped his brother’s forearm in a soldier’s salute. It had been years since they had last fought side by side, and they had never commanded a battle together.

“I am glad to be here,” Faramir said quietly as he returned his brothers salute.

“I am glad to have you here.” Boromir let go of his brother’s arm and unsheathed his sword. “Osgiliath, to arms!” he cried. “Move the catapults into place.”

Faramir drew his sword as well. “Ithilien, to arms!”

Side by side the brothers made their way through the defence lines of Osgiliath’s soldiers and Ithilien’s Rangers to the first ranks. The ranks were in perfect order already. The men had the time to notice the two highest ranking Captains of all of Gondor move together to take their positions. One of them started to cheer, and soon more and more voices joined in, calling out their Captains’ names with a smile on their faces. Faramir returned the smiles, called every man he recognized as he passed him by name. It was the first victory of the day that even when facing an army that outnumbered them, men of Gondor could still laugh and smile.

“Scouts of Ithilien have discovered an army of Southrons that moves towards Osgiliath and the bridge,” Boromir shouted. “They have drawn very near and will emerge from the underbrush any minute now. There are at least three thousands of them. We don’t know for certain, for they were discovered late, but most probably they are well armed and equipped. I say they will not set one foot on the bridge, as long as one soldier of Osgiliath and one Ranger of Ithilien is left to draw breath. Do you agree?”

The lines of defence cheered their commander, and Faramir cheered with them, for his commander, brother and friend.

“Hold your fire!” Boromir continued. “Wait for my command. First rank fires first. Second rank fires while first rank readies again. Catapults fire at will. Swordsmen hold position. Wait for my command! Hold your fire.”

The Lieutenants repeated the orders throughout the ranks.

A single arrow from the third circle of watches cut through the air in warning, not a single horn called out. There was a strange noise coming from the underbrush where the main body of watches was set out. The sound of many boots on the ground. The Lieutenants started shouting out names and positions. Suddenly there was a lot of movement in the defence lines. Boys handed out arrows and shields. Men shifted from one foot to another in anticipation. Swords and bows were kissed. Men clasped hands, boys vomited in fear. This was worse than last night, for the sound of boots on the ground was drawing near. Some guards from the second and first line of watches came running out of the woods to join the defence.

“Hold your fire!” Boromir’s deep voice silenced most of the nervous voices in the ranks.

Faramir raised his left arm, and his Rangers cheered in response. “Ithilien, answer to Osgiliath’s command!” he called, placing his Rangers under his brother’s command for the first moments of the organized defence.

Boromir raised his left arm as well, and the air filled with more than two thousand voices cheering their commander. “Gondor!”

Then there was complete silence in the ranks, only disturbed by the sound of thousands of boots thundering on the ground in the distance.

A fireball appeared from the underbrush to head for Gondor’s defence lines.

“Incoming!” a voice shouted the warning, and soldiers jumped to safety when it was clear where the burning shot was going to land. One soldier gave a yell and struggled to undo his shirt, which had caught fire. Two comrades helped him strip and hurl down the burning piece of cloth to put out the fire with their boots. The single burning shot was extinguished by some of their comrades, and the ranks closed quickly.

Boromir raised his sword.

Another voice shouted: “Incoming!” and a second burning shot appeared from the underbrush. Suddenly the bushes of Ithilien seemed to become alive. Hundreds of Southrons left the cover of the trees to rush at Osgiliath’s defences in a disordered stream of moving targets, screaming and shouting, swinging their weapons, their painted faces frightening in the bright sunlight.

“First rank fire!” Boromir shouted and dropped his sword. “Catapults fire at will!”

Arrows started to rain on the attacking Southrons. Burning shots set their hair and clothes on fire, turning them into living torches. The attacking forces answered in kind.

“Second rank fire!”

Thick smoke rose from where the damp underbrush had caught fire, obscuring the sun.

Hell had broken loose on a small clearing in Ithilien.  



	16. The 20th of June Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

XVI

The Southrons stormed the clearing like a swarm of bees. Their advance was fast and seemingly disordered, as if they their speed and quick movement might confuse and frighten the opponent enough to simply trample them with their feet. The small clearing was almost completely covered, and still there were warriors streaming in large numbers out of the twilight between Ithilien’s trees. The line of defenders seemed almost small in comparison to the numbers of invaders moving towards the ancient city of Osgiliath, like a river flooding a field in spring.

In the bright light of the sun, Faramir could see the banners of the Southrons flying in the light afternoon breeze. All banners showed the serpent of the South, some of them tall, menacing, black, others small and almost beautiful. The Southrons were proud and fierce warriors, they answered to their Kings alone. Their Kings had fallen prey to those whose name no-one ever spoke, therefore they fought in the shadows and answered to the forces of the darkness. Their faces were smeared with red paint, like blood, their dark hair flowed in long braids over their shoulders, their gleaming armour reflected the rays of the sun.

“First rank fire!”

Another wave of arrows pierced the air at Boromir’s command. The wave tore apart a good number of Southrons in the first lines of the charge. Their heavy bodies tumbled down into the dust of the clearing, for a moment slowing their fellow warriors behind them. Most attackers just trampled over their dead and dying, others jumped over the bodies with cries of anger.

“Second rank fire!”

Some more Southrons joined the dead, felled by the next wave of arrows that brought death and pain upon them.

“Swordsmen make ready!”

The archers were firing at will now, for the Southrons had almost reached the defense lines of Gondor, and there were only seconds left before the armies met each other.

“Swordsmen first line, archers fall back!”

The swordsmen that had been standing by moved a few paces forward, to cover the two ranks of archers who quickly dropped their bows and drew their swords to fight the enemy in close combat.

The earth seemed to shudder under the impact of boots. The Southron army slammed against the line of Gondor’s defense like a wave against the rocky coast in the ocean at Dol Amroth. The air rang with the sound of battle cries and steel meeting steel.

Thoughts were useless the moment two armies met in an embrace of death.

Faramir was able to protect his soul from the madness that had become reality by permitting his consciousness to take in and understand the horror around him. It would reach his mind eventually and would have to be dealt with, but later, much later, when the dead were buried and the wounded taken care of, when the swords gleamed in the sunlight without the treacherous dark spots of dried blood marring the blade, when it was safe to show pity and compassion, to be human again.

Maybe someone would tell breathtaking stories at campfires a few days from now. Maybe there would be glory. Maybe some of the screaming men would be called heroes in the future. Maybe there would be silence again.

Maybe.

For this was battle, and there was no silence enjoyed, no glory felt, there were no heroes born, no stories lived in the onslaught of chaos. There was only madness, fire, smoke, disgusting smell, unbearable noise, pain and death.

The Southrons were fierce warriors, but they lacked the skill and precision the men of Gondor possessed. Faramir had learned in early childhood to channel brute force into subtle advances. His teachers had shown him how to wield a weapon efficiently, to shepherd his strength as long as possible, for a battle could last long.

In the chaos of moving bodies, Faramir could see his brother fighting several Southrons at once a few feet away. He saw that even though his brother was one of the most physical formidable men in Gondor, his size and strength was only enhancing the skill with which he wielded his heavy sword, he did not depend on it alone.

Boromir’s blade was dripping red with the blood of enemies. “Gondor!” he cried. Faramir knew that his brother preferred to fight in complete silence, but he shouted nevertheless to reassure his men that he was fighting with them, that he would always be right there at their side.

“Gondor!” Faramir echoed the cry, and Gondor’s soldiers cheered their Captains’ voices that were barely audible above the noise of battle.

 

 

In its prime Osgiliath had been a city that could not be compared to other cities in Gondor or in lands far away, and even in ruins the city was unique. When the city was first built, all buildings had been on the great bridge, and therefore had been safe and easy to defend. When the city had grown and started to flow out to both shores of the Anduin, the inhabitants of the past had built a high wall of stone in a half circle, starting and ending at the eastern shore of the river Anduin. This wall had been destroyed a long time ago, and the fallen stones had been used to built houses and repair the bridge. Some stones still lay where they had fallen, but they blended in with the ruins of the houses and towers and did not serve their purpose any more.

The forces of Gondor were too few in numbers to rebuild the old wall, and therefore they had to depend on the maze of ruins that had been the eastern part of the city for protection. There were no ramparts, no ditches, no wooden gates, no other obstacles to keep the enemy off the bridge but ruins and the army of Osgiliath itself.

Hurrying over the high arch of the bridge Anakil had a good view of the clearing between the ruins of the city and the trees of Ithilien. He was half a mile away, but already he could smell the smoke of burning grass, hear the cries of pain and death and the sound of swords meeting in anger. The Lieutenants at the catapults shouted orders and curses that could be understood above all other noise. Sometimes there were orders shouted in a language the boy did not understand, the orders directed at the enemy.

Anakil stopped at the parapet to get his ragged breathing under control. He had never seen a battle before, and even though he was at a safe distance, he was terrified. He had often dreamt of battles, but in his dreams a battle had been different. He had been a great Captain, he had led his men without fear, and of course not a single one of his men had suffered injury or died. The enemy had feared him as they feared death, and he had killed many of them with his great blade, alone on his part of the battlefield, visible from afar, encouraging his men, terrifying his enemies. In his battles there had been no noise, no fire, no smoke, no death, no fear.

“This is not the time to repeat a lesson I already taught you, but may I remind you that messengers are supposed to meet at the stables, my young apprentice?” the Poet whispered in Anakil’s ear and gently took his right arm.

Anakil did not move. “I have never seen so many men fighting before,” he whispered. “I have been here ten month now, but there has never been a battle, there have only been drills. I never guessed a battle would be like that. That’s horrible.” He pointed to the battlefield with his left hand. “They are slaughtering each other. How can they distinguish between one of our men and the enemy in this chaos and smoke?”

“Rest assured, they can. They are warriors, my young apprentice. Their duty is to protect Gondor and all those that live inside her borders. That includes you and me as well as the soldier fighting next to them.”

“But how can they see who fights next to them?”

“Sometimes they cannot see it,” the Poet explained. “They can always hear it. Listen to their shouts. They shout the name of the land or Captain for which they are fighting for.” He applied gentle pressure to Anakil’s right arm, and the boy hesitantly continued on his way to the eastern shore.

When they left the bridge, they could not see the field of battle any more, but they could hear it loud as thunder. There was a strange smell in the air, worse than the smell of burning grass. It took Anakil some time to realize it was the stench of burning flesh and fresh blood. He fought the urge to retch and tried not to think of the boys of the eastern garrison who had to be somewhere at the edge of the battlefield, preparing arrows and shields, putting out small fires and caring for wounded. He had been one of them, had prepared for those tasks a hundred times in as many drills. But this was not a drill, and suddenly Anakil realized that being a boy in Osgiliath was more than being a useless servant who had nothing to fear except Lieutenant Darin’s wrath.

Most messengers had been on the eastern shore when the garrison was called to arms, and therefore they had already prepared a few horses for departure. The animals were nervous, moving about as far as their reins allowed them to go, snorting and neighing. The door that led inside the main stables was closed. Every few seconds there was the sound of heavy hooves thundering against wood, and Anakil wondered if the few boys and the Warden who had to remain in the stables during a daytime attack could cope with the frightened animals.

Beldil was there with the messengers, without his messenger’s shirt, but nobody objected to his presence. He smiled at Anakil and twinkled. Anakil tried to smile back, but his face didn’t obey his commands and turned into a grimace instead.

Beldil’s smile broadened. “You look worse than the horses, Anakil,” he said and slightly bowed to the Poet. “It took you a long time to get here, Poet, the others were getting worried.”

“My young apprentice and I were on the western shore when the trumpet called,” the Poet answered and bowed in return. “Is there any indication how the tides of battle are turning?”

Beldil shook his head. “Not yet. They have brought in the first wounded and some dead, but for now the opponents seem to be evenly matched. The defense stands strong.”

“The Captains?”

“I have heard nothing, not even rumors, so I suppose they are unharmed and fighting.”

The Poet bowed his head again and went away to talk to the other messengers.

Anakil leaned against the wall of the stables and put his hands flat on the cold stone behind him to keep them from trembling. “I don’t understand it, Beldil” he breathed. “I just don’t understand it!”

“What is there to understand?” Beldil asked.

“Everything!” Anakil shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. “This noise. This smell. This smoke. Look at the sun! It is a fair day, a wonderful day…I had so much fun working with Anborn and now…now everything has turned into hell! Just like this! Listen to the screams. They are dying out there. I don’t want them to die!” He covered his eyes with one hand. “All my life I have dreamt of being a great warrior. All I wanted was to be able to wield a great sword in a great battle. There is a battle now, and all I want is for it to stop!”

Beldil put his bandaged wrist on Anakil’s shoulder. “Believe me, most of those who are fighting out there are feeling exactly the same right now. But still they fight, not because they want to, but because they have to. They are there to keep Gondor and everything they love in this world safe.”

“This is ridiculous!” Anakil lowered his hand and nodded. “I am acting like an idiot, am I not?” he asked and managed a smile.

Beldil chuckled. “No, you are acting like a lad who has to listen to his first great battle. I have seen worse reactions. In Ithilien, we fight many battles, but most are small and swiftly over. Some are no more than a skirmish between scouting parties. A skirmish like you and I fought with those Orcs.”

Anakil snorted. “I did not fight in any skirmish. You and Anborn saw my fighting abilities today. You fought those beasts, I was just lucky.”

“And I am glad you were lucky.” Beldil scratched his scarred forehead with his bandaged hand. “Let me tell you something. The new lads in the Ithilien company are always positioned somewhere in the trees with their bows, where they are in no great danger and can watch what is happening below, to show them what it is like to fight outside the training ground. Captain Faramir and Lieutenants Mablung and Damrod are always very careful around them. You never know what happens when a young man gets introduced to battle. Most battles are neither a pretty sight nor easy to stomach, but they never tell you about this at home.”

“How can you be so calm?” Anakil’s hand started trembling again, and he put it back against the cold wall. “Don’t you want to either run away or run to join them in the field?”

“I am not able to help right now, and that is frustrating, but rest assured, the messengers will come to play their part in this soon.” Beldil’s bandaged hand pointed to the Poet, who had gathered some of the messengers around him and talked to them in quiet tones. “Like me he is not one of Osgiliath, but they turn to him for advice, for he is the most experienced. He knows how to keep them calm. The most frustrating part of being a messenger is the long wait. Look at them. They are ready to ride off any second. Most of them are great warriors who can better most of those that are fighting right now, but they have to stay. They have to listen to the battle but are not allowed to take a part in it.”

“Why are you not afraid?” Anakil raised one hand, and it was still trembling. He sighed and put it in the pocket of his breeches. “Don’t you fear that the enemy will break through the defenses and enter the city, take the bridge?” He looked down at Beldil’s injured arm and wrist. “You are not able to defend yourself.”

“As long as you do not hear the call to retreat, we are safe between the ruins,” Beldil answered.

“I hate this war!” Anakil whispered.

“Everyone hates it,” Beldil smiled. “But as long as there is one man in Gondor left standing, we will continue fighting.”

 

 

The line of swordsmen had dissolved into small groups, but the two lines that had been bowmen in the first moments of battle were standing as one. Those that had been on the western shore when the call to arms sounded had arrived now and formed a third standing line. Some from the second and third lines had picked up their bows and sent arrows over their comrades’ shoulders into the mass of the attacking Southrons, every single one meeting a target at this short range.

The catapults fired in short intervals, spouting fire and death. The Lieutenants of the catapult crews were shouting and cursing to force their men to reload faster. The enemy seemed to have two catapults hidden in the trees, but the weapons were not visible in the twilight of the forest. Their positions could only be guessed by tracing the balls of fire they poured onto Gondor’s defenses. Every now and then one of Gondor’s catapults fired a blind shot into the trees. The enemy’s catapults did not cease their fire.

Boromir fought back to back with one of the Rangers whose name he could not remember. To his left he sometimes caught a glimpse of his brother, who had paired in the same fashion with another Ranger. The grass was burning around the Ranger Captain and his man. The ground was covered with the bodies of enemies and men of Gondor alike.

Some of the bodies were moving, trying to crawl back towards the ruins to get the attention of the healers. Those who reached the standing lines were picked up by their comrades and dragged to safety.

A small boy, no older than fourteen, appeared in the first standing line, carrying waterskins around his neck. The boy was unarmed, his dirty hands were dangling at his sides, his eyes wide with fear. He seemed oddly out of his place in his clean white shirt.

“Water?” he asked hesitantly.

“Get out of here!” Boromir heard his brother’s voice.

“Get behind the ranks!” Lieutenant Darin’s voice shouted.

The boy turned into the direction the first voice had come from.

“Get out of here!” Faramir shouted again, coughing.

The boy nodded and turned around. Two large, dirty hands from the third rank, Lieutenant Darin’s, grabbed the boy’s shoulders and pulled him towards safety. Smoke obscured Boromir’s vision. A burning shot crashed into the second rank. Men howled in pain. Others shouted for water to extinguish the new source of flames and smoke. The boy cried out. A fast growing red spot appeared on his white shirt where a black arrow protruded from his back. The boy’s legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. The hands on his shoulders disappeared. The slender body swayed a moment, then the boy sank down face first onto the bloody grass.

Boromir howled in pure anger, turned to one side to get a better view of the battle around him and drove his sword into the side of a Southron that tried to pass him to attack the Ranger at his back. From the corner of his eye he could see an enemy dropping a short bow and rushing at him. The Captain ducked in time to avoid being beheaded by a broad sword. The Southron that would have slaughtered him was attacking once more, and Boromir realized he did not have room to defend himself with his long sword. He jumped aside to avoid the blade that was descending from above to split his skull, changed his sword from right to left hand and reached for the dagger that he always kept at his belt. He threw it in a fluid motion, and the short blade buried itself deep in the enemy’s left eye. Boromir breathed a sigh of relief as the Southron dropped his sword and crashed to the ground. The Captain coughed in the smoke and grabbed his sword with both hands, just in time to parry a blow from another Southron who had taken his fallen comrade’s place.

From the corner of his eyes Boromir saw his brother raising his bloody sword. “Ithilien to me!”

The call was passed through the fighting ranks. “Ithilien to Faramir!”

The Ithilien Rangers obeyed at once. Fighting and shouting, some of them with bloody faces and limping, they cleared themselves a way through the scattered enemies to reach their Captain. Soon there were at least two dozen of them at Faramir’s side, some of them fighting to keep the attacking Southrons at bay, the others listening to their Captain’s quiet orders. The group of Rangers neither shouted cries of battle nor took formation for an attack. Suddenly, quietly and seemingly as one, the group was gone, had disappeared behind the standing ranks. Boromir trusted his brother enough not to question whatever he had in mind.

One of the catapults fired a shot into the trees. Something in the twilight of the woods erupted into flames. The catapult crew howled in triumph. Trees did not burn this bright and fast, they must have hit either the enemy’s catapult itself or the tar the Southrons used to set their shots on fire.

“Continue firing!” Boromir shouted. “Drive them back into the trees!”

There was a sudden noise at his back. Boromir turned on his heels, just in time to avoid the broad sword of an enemy that was moving to sever his head from his body. The blade met his right arm instead, just below the shoulder, where his chainmail protected his skin. The impact sent him stumbling backwards, and he felt blood drenching his shirt. Despite the pain his sword moved quickly, stabbing right through the enemy’s throat. He had to kick against the fallen body to free his blade. The Ranger that had fought at his back lay face first on the ground. Two arrows pierced his throat, but he had still grasped the hilt of his sword tightly with his right hand.

Boromir turned his back to the standing ranks to get some protection. “More swordsmen to the front!” he ordered. He knew it was dangerous to weaken the ranks, but the men that were fighting outside the lines could not cope with the onslaught of Southrons any longer. He did not want to condemn those men, most of them his brother’s Rangers, to meaningless slaughter.

“Gondor!” This battle cry had been shouted again and again from inside the ranks, but this time it seemed to come from the right of the clearing. “Gondor!” There was a lot of fire and smoke to his right, where some ill aimed shots of the catapults had done no harm except setting the grass on fire earlier in the battle, forcing the Southrons to stay clear of the flames in their assault. The fires had burned down eventually, leaving only black, scorched earth and a wall of smoke at the enemy’s flank. Black shapes appeared in the smoke, leaping over glowing fires and ash. They had dark hoods and masks pulled over their faces, and their long cloaks were dripping wet to protect them against the suffocating smoke. They stormed into the enemy’s flank with their swords raised high, crying and shouting like madmen.

Despite the dark masks, Boromir could make out his brother leading the attack. The Rangers must have circled behind Gondor’s defenses down to the river to wet their cloaks. Thereafter they had found a way, under the cover of smoke and chaos, to approach unnoticed from the right. Rangers were experts at disappearing when they did not want to be seen, and Boromir was glad to have them at Osgiliath today.

The Southrons were confused to find Gondor’s soldiers in their midst, and it took them some time to reorganize their forces to cope with this new center of battle. Faramir’s force was small, he couldn’t do much harm to the enemy, but he drew some of them away from the ranks that protected the city.

A single horn cried out.

Slowly, absolutely unexpectedly, the advance on the clearing halted. The sun that filtered through the thick smoke showed the defenders of Gondor an army holding its position. At first Boromir considered this to be a trick. He had the words on his lips to order an advance, but he did not shout them, for another horn called out from behind the enemy’s army. The warriors that had been so fiercely trying to breach Osgiliath’s defenses started to move backwards towards the treeline.

“Hold position!” Boromir shouted. “Hold position! No pursuit!”

They did not take with them their wounded and dead, but nevertheless moved painfully slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. The soldiers of Gondor watched them in silence, uncertain if they had the right to cheer a victory. Even the hooded Rangers on the open field did not send any arrows after them.

“Their withdrawal is meaningless!” Boromir broke the eerie silence. “This is a strategic retreat. We have not defeated them yet. They will be back, and we will make them leave for good then!” He sheathed his sword and put his left hand to his bleeding right arm. The wound was not deep, and the pain was bearable. “Third standing rank stays as guard. Nobody moves onto the battlefield without Captain’s permission. The Rangers will bring in the injured.” He waved to his brother who was busy talking to his small force. “Faramir! Scouts!” he shouted.

Faramir nodded, and five of his hooded Rangers disappeared into the woods where the army of Southrons had withdrawn.

“Those who need the healers’ attention, go and get it now. All the others, get some rest. I assure you, we will fight again today!”

 

 

Anakil sat down against the wall of the stables and tried to ignore the noise of battle from the clearing and the sound of heavy hooves against wood from inside the stables. The Poet and the other messengers took turns leading the horses around the stables to keep them calm. Most men behaved like soldiers off duty, sitting on the ground chatting about home and exchanging gossip and news from all parts of Gondor. Anakil envied them their experience as messengers, the ability to relax despite the knowledge that a battle was going on less than half a mile away.

Suddenly the noise from the battle died down. Beldil smiled and sat down on the grass next to the dusty road at the stables, busy chewing a piece of dried meat. “The fighting has stopped and they haven’t sent an urgent message to the city,” he explained. “That is a good sign. It means the defenses have been strong.”

“Is it over now? Did we win?” Anakil asked. “Why don’t they cheer?”

“I don’t think it is over. I guess the enemy has withdrawn to regroup, but that is a good sign indeed.”

“How can there be any good sign on a field where two entire armies meet for only one purpose: To slit each other’s throats?” Anakil sighed. He hated talking about this, but Beldil was his friend. “I am scared of the sight of battle,” he confessed. “I am disgusted by the smell of battle…does that mean Irion was right to call me a coward?”

“You are not a coward, Anakil, you are young and naïve.” Anakil started to object, and Beldil raised his hand. “Don’t take that as an insult. I envy you your naïveté concerning battle.” Anakil relaxed a little, and Beldil smiled. “It is worse to watch or listen to a battle than to actually fight in it. In battle, you do not think, you just try to survive and win the day. You do not have time to think. What we are doing right now, sitting around doing nothing, that is the worst that can happen to you in the army.”

Anakil shook his head. “There was some kind of sense in everything I experienced in the army so far. But today I don’t understand anything any more.”

“There is no sense to be found in war,” the Poet said from above.

Anakil turned his head. The Poet stood to his right, leading one of the horses on long reins.

“We are not at war because we love fighting and killing. Soldiers try to convince themselves that they enjoy being a warrior to keep themselves sane, to avoid succumbing to the horror that can be caused with a sword or a bow. They call a weapon beautiful to be able to like it, to not hate themselves because they do what they have to do. But most of them kill to protect. Only those that have given in to madness kill to feel pleasure and satisfaction in taking a life.

“War is not beautiful, my young apprentice. A second after war is declared, war does not make sense any more and develops a life and will of its own. You cannot control war, like you can control an army; you cannot understand war, like you understand an army, because in chaos there is nothing to control and understand.”

“Then why are we at war? We have been at war all my life. If nobody can control war, why doesn’t the Steward end it?”

“The Steward did not start this war; therefore it is not in his power to end it. I cannot read the Steward’s mind, but I know that the shadows have almost obscured the light of the sun. It will be over soon,” the Poet said.

“Are you sure about this?” Beldil asked.

“I have seen madness and chaos. I know what it feels like to loose control.” The Poet stroked the horse’s neck. “The Steward does not have much left to lose,” he whispered barely audible.

 

 

The healers would be busy this afternoon and evening. Both the Ithilien and Osgiliath Companies had suffered considerable injuries and losses. Faramir’s small group of Rangers brought in the injured from the open field. The dead were left where they had fallen, next to their dead enemies on the burned grass of the field. Only those whose clothes had caught fire and whose flesh had started to burn and smell were dragged aside to put out the flames and contain the stench that began to settle down on the battlefield.

Faramir removed his dark, damp mask from his face and threw back his hood. His wet cloak was heavy, and he slicked back his soaked hair from his face with both hands. His eyes watered in the thick smoke. A few tears had cleared strange paths on his dirty face. He tried to make out his scouts in the twilight between the trees of Ithilien, but they had already disappeared into shadows.

Anborn stopped next to him, supporting a wounded comrade with both arms. “Captain?”

“I am not hurt, Anborn.” Faramir reached out to remove the mask from Anborn’s face that had shifted upwards and started to obscure the Ranger’s vision. “Take some rest, they will be back soon.”

Anborn nodded gravely. “I know. I don’t understand why they left.”

“I don’t understand it, either. All I know is that they will regroup, and they will be back.” Faramir put one arm under the injured Ranger’s shoulder and helped Anborn support the wounded man.

They reached the standing line that had been left as guard, and soldiers of Osgiliath lifted the injured Ranger from their arms. Faramir nodded his thanks and took a look around. The ranks had dissolved quickly. Most of the wounded that had not been able to leave the field without help had already been brought away. The open field between the ranks and the trees was empty now, except for the dead of both sides. It was dangerous to walk the clearing where the main part of the battle had taken place, for it was within range of any bowman that might hide in the trees.

Faramir took off his wet cloak and draped the heavy garment over his shoulder. There were no more injured to bring to the healers. The soldiers of Osgiliath started to carry away the dead that had fallen close to the ruins, comrades and enemies alike. The Ranger Captain bent down to help, and his gaze fell on the slender body of the boy that had tried to bring water. He knelt down and pulled the single arrow out of the small body. Carefully he wrapped his cloak around the still form and turned the boy on his back. There was no blood on the boy’s face, only a little dirt. His eyes were closed. The arrow had pierced his heart; he had been dead before his head had hit the ground. There had been almost no pain, only surprise; his features were relaxed, as if he was sleeping. “Children are fighting this war,” Faramir whispered. He lifted the small body into his arms and stood.

“He was a soldier, Captain,” Anborn said gently.

Faramir shook his head. “He was still a child.”

“Maybe he was still a child. But he also was a soldier of Gondor, and now he is dead.” Anborn reached out and took the light body out of his Captain’s arms. Carefully he covered the boy’s face with the dark, wet hood of Faramir’s cloak. “I will ensure his resting place is a peaceful one, Captain.”

Faramir managed a small smile. He knew that Anborn had been instructed by Mablung to take care of him in the Lieutenant’s absence. Sometimes he doubted that he really merited his men’s love and care. “Thank you, Anborn. Make sure you get some rest afterwards. You fought well.”

“Captain.” Anborn returned the small smile and carried the dead boy away.

 

 

Most soldiers of Osgiliath helped to carry the wounded to the healers and retired to their tents to get some rest afterwards. The third standing line formed a well armed guard at the edge of the clearing, and the Ithilien scouts ensured that the enemy could not launch a surprise attack on the bridge. The boys were busy putting out the last small fires and collecting arrows, swords and shields the enemy had left near the guard line. A small group of soldiers was busy searching the enemy’s dead for valuables and piling the bodies at the edge of the clearing to burn them. Gondor’s dead were carried to a different place, where they were identified by comrades. A scribe took down their names to write the sad news to their families as soon as the battle was over. They would be buried the next morning with all honors a soldier of Gondor was entitled to receive.

There was a constant murmur between the ruins and tents, the only loud noises were the screams and moans from the healers’ tents. The tents were not spacious enough to provide beds for all the wounded, therefore those who had suffered minor injuries rested outside in the grass and were mostly tended to by comrades or sat waiting to receive the healers’ attention. The smell of herbs and blood was in the air, a smell Boromir was well acquainted with, for it remained in a camp for days after a battle was over.

The Captain carefully removed his cloak and chainmail to take a look at the wound on his right upper arm. His shirt was soiled with dried blood and stuck to the cut. Boromir could not help wincing as he pulled the garment off with a forceful movement, reopening the wound. The cut was not as deep as he had feared; it would require a few stitches, but Boromir reckoned it would be sufficient to bandage it now and return to get it stitched when things had calmed down a little. He took a bandage the healers’ aides were handing out to those who could tend to themselves and sat down on a fallen stone to wrap it tightly around his upper arm. His cloak, shirt and chainmail lay in a heap at his feet. He nodded at every soldier that noticed him among the wounded, assuring them that he had suffered only scratches and no serious wounds.

Two dirty hands swatted his struggling left hand away from the bandage and pulled it tight with the ease of someone who was used to care for the wounded. “Still alive, brother?” Faramir asked gently and knelt down to secure the white linen.

“Still alive,” Boromir smiled. He raised his left hand to brush away some grime and dried blood that clung to his brother’s cheek. “You look terrible.”

“I am fine,” Faramir said and smiled up at a wounded soldier who walked by and greeted his Captains.

“They will be back soon.”

“I know. But I guess they want to wait for the cover and confusion of darkness. I can think of no other reason why they have withdrawn.”

“I sincerely hope they do not plan something we cannot guess right now. We can cope with darkness well enough.”

Faramir applied the finishing touches to Boromir’s bandage and lifted the chainmail from the ground. “Do you need help with this?”

“It is only a scratch; I can manage on my own.” Boromir grunted and pulled first the shirt, then the chainmail over his head, careful not to entangle his long hair in the small links. “Your Rangers fought well. Make sure those who are not on scouting duty get some rest. That includes you as well. I have seen most of your men caring for the wounded, even doing some stitching.”

Faramir sat down on the fallen stone next to his brother. “We have only one healer at Henneth Annûn. The Rangers are used to caring for their wounded,” he explained. “I will talk to them.” He put a hand on his brother’s arm, and even though his face was serious, his eyes smiled. ”And I will see to it that you get some rest as well. There are a few hours of daylight left.”

“I do not have the time for rest,” Boromir snorted, knowing that his brother expected those words. “I have spent enough time already caring for a mere annoyance.”

“That annoyance is in need of stitches.”

“The healers do not have the time to stitch scratches.” Boromir rose to his feet, adjusted the chainmail and pulled on his cloak. The dark spots of blood on the front of the dark cloak were barely visible. “I will send messengers to Henneth Annûn and Cair Andros with news of our situation. We have suffered considerable losses and are in need of reinforcements. Maybe Cair Andros can spare some men.”

“No messenger to the city?”

“Not yet.” Boromir shook his head. “The Steward cannot spare a single man of the guard, this much I know. I do not want to worry the Lords with news of a battle that is not decided yet. I will ride to the city in person by dawn, whatever the outcome of the night may be. I have been absent from the city far too long.” He cast a meaningful look at his brother. “And so have you.”

Boromir was standing closely in front of Faramir, blocking the view of his brother’s face for those who passed on the narrow roads between the healers’ tents. “I know.” Faramir used the moment of privacy to sigh and slip out of the role of commanding officer for a moment, a role Boromir knew was not in his brother’s nature at all. “And I will accompany you and speak to the Council as well. You are right, I have been absent far too long.”

“Father will not be pleased that we have joined forces and commands without asking for his permission,” Boromir said.

“It is for the best of Osgiliath and all of Gondor. The Council will agree with us, and he will not reprimand us before the Council. Not if we come home with a victory.”

“No, not before the Council. But are you ready to face him in private?”

“Has anybody ever been ready to do that?” Faramir rose, and his face changed from that of the silent, gentle scholar Boromir knew he was into that of a Captain, a rock his men could rely on, the man he had to be in times of war. Boromir knew he was the only one allowed to see both faces in these times of crisis. “Let’s not speculate about what might be in the future,” Faramir said. “Let’s deal with the situation at hand.”

“Captains?” Someone cleared his throat behind him, and Boromir turned around.

“Yes, Anborn?” Faramir answered for him.

“Captains, I request permission to enter the field of battle with a group of men, all volunteers, to bring in the fallen.” The Ranger spoke to Boromir, but his eyes were on Faramir as well. “The guards reported that they hear some moaning, it is possible that some of those we left for dead are still alive.”

“How many are in this group you speak for?” Boromir asked.

“Twenty-eight, Captain. Eighteen of Ithilien, including myself, and ten of Osgiliath.”

Boromir exchanged a look with his brother, and both of them nodded. “You have my permission,” Boromir said. “But do not linger on the field longer than necessary and watch out carefully for arrows from the treeline.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Anborn bowed his head.

“I will go with you,” Faramir said.

Boromir did not want to object to his brother in Anborn’s presence, therefore he let both Rangers depart in silence.

 

 

The noise from the battle was gone, but the stench remained. The roads were busy with soldiers now, a lot of them bloodied, even though it was not necessarily their own blood. Most of the fires had been put out, but smoke and ash lingered in the air, sometimes obscuring the evening sun. The moans and cries from inside the healers’ tents were audible over the entire eastern garrison.

Anakil longed to do something, anything! To go to the healers’ tents to assist or to help carry away the dead. To clean swords or to stand watch in the clearing. Anything to escape the nerve-racking task of waiting. But he was not allowed to leave the stables, so he stayed. They had carried many dead before his eyes, and he desperately hoped that his brothers were not among them.

There was still noise inside the stables. The Warden and the boys had not succeeded yet in calming down the horse that tried to kick its stall apart. The saddled and bridled horses of the messengers had quieted down. The men had knotted their reins to the saddles and let them walk around freely; only two men were guarding them to ensure that they did not wander too far.

Beldil reclined in the grass next to the dusty road, his bandaged arm tucked carefully under his head. His eyes were closed, but Anakil knew he was not asleep. Even was too young to find some rest in the aftermath of battle.

The Poet leaned against the wall of the stables, his eyes cast down, his fingers playing absently with the hilt of his sheathed sword. Anakil could feel the steel of his own blade at his side, and he was glad that he had not been forced to unsheathe it this afternoon.

Captain Boromir came walking down the dusty path at a brisk pace, and Anakil was relieved to see him unhurt. The Captain had dried blood and dirt in his hair and on his hands, but he moved without a limp, and except for a dark patch of blood that was barely visible, his cloak was reasonably clean. The Poet straightened up immediately and called the other messengers to his side. Anakil started to get up to join them, but Beldil’s voice held him back: “Don’t bother,” the messenger said. “He does not have written messages. He will send spoken word to the other garrisons to inform them that we are under attack. The Poet will send those who are most able to defend themselves on the fastest horses.”

Anakil stood but did not walk over to the Captain and the group of messengers. He could not understand the Captain’s words, but he saw the Poet bow and nod. The old messenger called out for four horses, and while they were fetched, the Captain talked to four of the messengers in private. The others that were not needed settled down in the grass again to continue what they had been doing. The four messengers soon bowed to the Captain, mounted the horses and cantered away. Three of them stayed on the eastern side of the Anduin while the fourth made for the bridge.

“Strange,” Beldil muttered.

“What is strange?” Anakil asked from above, while he watched the Captain depart.

“Only one of them intends to cross the bridge. The three that stayed on the eastern shore are most probably on their way to Henneth Annûn. Two of them will escort the one for a few hours, then they will come back with all three horses, while the messenger continues on foot. The Captain did not send someone to South Ithilien, but that does not surprise me, for it is a long and dangerous way to the south. But there was only one messenger that made for the western shore, which means that either Cair Andros or Minas Tirith do not receive a message.” Beldil shrugged. “Or the eastern lads continue to Cair Andros. I cannot read the Captain’s mind.”

Anakil sat down again. One of the horses walked over to the two friends in the grass and nuzzled Anakil’s neck. The boy reached up to pat the animal’s nose. “What do we do now?” he asked.

“We keep waiting.” Beldil said. “Maybe you could organize something to eat? I am afraid there will be no call to dinner this evening.”

 

 

The twenty-eight soldiers and their Captain searched the clearing in groups of four or five. Two watched out for any danger that might come from the treeline, while the others bent down to examine the body of a fallen comrade and gently pick him up. Some of the Southrons that were still alive but unable to crawl away were moaning, but the men of Gondor did not have the time to care for them as well. They had come for their dead, not the enemy’s casualties, and those of the enemy that were still alive would be among those within a few hours.

The Rangers of Ithilien had pulled their masks over their mouths and noses to keep the sickening stench of violent death at bay. The soldiers of Osgiliath pressed their sleeves to their faces. The men carried the dead to the guard line and handed them over to their comrades before entering the clearing again to continue their sad task.

Faramir walked in a group of four and was glad that his mask hid a part of his face. There were some Rangers among the dead, men he knew and recognized; and there were those of Osgiliath he did not know, most of them young. He would call them boys if he met them in the streets of the city. Children were fighting this war!

“Captain!” Anborn called out and waved him over to where a group of five was standing in a small circle around a body on the ground. “He is still alive.”

Faramir and his three companions walked over to Anborn’s group. Faramir motioned five of this group of nine to continue with their gruesome task, while the remaining two covered him and Anborn.

“It is a miracle, but he is alive,” Anborn said, looking down at the still breathing form of one of Osgiliath’s soldiers whose body and face was burned beyond recognition. “If we carry him, we will hurt him unnecessarily.”

“Captain Faramir, we should finish it for him,” one of the two soldiers said. “He would ask us for it, if he was able.”

Faramir looked down into the face that consisted only of charred flesh and dried blood. The mouth was slightly open, and gurgling breath escaped black lips. The Captain could not tell whether the black ash that covered part of the body was the remains of the man’s clothes or his skin. He nodded gravely.

“I will do it,” Anborn said. “You go on, I will follow you in a moment.”

“Go on!” Faramir said.

The soldiers turned reluctantly and joined one of the small groups.

Faramir stayed.

“Captain, you do not have to…,” Anborn said.

“This is my task, Anborn,” Faramir said slowly. He would never ask one of his men to do something he was reluctant to perform himself. “You do not have to stay. He won’t fight, I can do this alone.”

“You can order me to stand aside, but please do not order me to leave.”

“I won’t,” Faramir said. “You are welcome to stay.”

Anborn knelt down and gently covered one of the man’s burned hands with his. “I don’t know your name, soldier, but I know you fought well,” he whispered.

The man moaned, and Faramir realized that he had to be at least partly conscious. The Ranger Captain could not imagine the agony the soldier was in just now. One of his eyes opened slightly, and it cost Faramir a lot of strength to return the gaze. That single eye, in a face of burned flesh, pleaded with him to do what he had to do.

The Captain drew his dagger and gently closed that open eye with his fingertips. He did not know if the man was able to hear him, but he desperately hoped he could. “Be at peace,” he said. “Gondor is grateful for the service you have given her.” He took a deep breath and cut the man’s throat with a forceful movement.

 

 

He could not believe he had fallen asleep. The noise in the garrison had quieted down to a whisper, the dusty roads between the ruins were empty, and there were only occasional cries and moans from the healers’ tents. There was still some noise from inside the stables, but it had calmed down as well, and the thundering of hooves against wood had stopped. The sun had almost vanished in the west, and the shadows had grown long and dark.

Anakil sat up from the patch of grass where he had lain down next to Beldil some hours ago and brushed dirt and small leaves off his shirt. “Good morning, troublemaker!” Beldil greeted him and laughed. “Your brothers were here to visit you, but you slept like the dead.”

Anakil sighed in relief. “Are they all right?

“Well enough. One of them - I don’t know which one, they look the same to me - has some burns on his left hand, but otherwise they appeared to be fine.”

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to sleep at all.” He rubbed his eyes with both hands.

“Things happen.”

Anakil sighed again. “What time is it?”

“About three hours prior midnight, I guess. It will be dark soon.”

 

 

For the first time ever, the cooks brought dinner to the eastern shore. There were a lot of wounded that were not able to walk, and most soldiers had not thought of food tonight before the smell of it reached their noses. They sat down on fallen rocks or at small campfires to eat in silence. The guard line had been relieved by soldiers that had not been wounded in the fight. All other men were supposed to get some rest, but most of them did not find the peace of mind to lie down and sleep. A second line of soldiers had formed up behind the guard line; men who listened to the sounds of nature and tried to see something in the darkness of the forest. All of them knew that the Southrons would return soon.

The sun disappeared below the horizon. Her last rays bathed the city of Osgiliath and the river Anduin in an eerie red light. Between the trees of Ithilien there already was complete darkness. None of the scouts Faramir had sent out hours ago had returned yet, and the two mounted messengers that ought to come back to the garrison with three horses were still absent as well.

All natural sounds seemed to have vanished. Silence hung over the ruins, the charred clearing and the forest like a thick blanket. A light breeze stirred the branches of the trees and bushes, the cooling air was almost visible above the burned down fires. You did not have to look closer to realize that the peace of the quiet evening was a lie. Death could be smelled in the air. There seemed to emerge a dark shadow from the east, a shadow darker than the night, a shadow that settled down quietly but heavily on the men’s hearts.

In old stories it was told that Ithilien was most beautiful at night, when most sounds seemed to vanish, when peace could almost be felt in the meadows, clearings, forests and rivers. Faramir believed that Ithilien had been such a place once, and he believed that it could become such a place once again. But he had never seen the beautiful land at peace. The dark shadows that seemed to envelop Ithilien and Osgiliath were far from peaceful, they settled down like a menacing blanket.

The attack came without warning.

None of the scouts made it back to the garrison in time, most probably none of them was still alive. There was neither restraint nor order in the enemy’s approach. They stormed the already battered clearing like madmen. In the twilight of dusk they seemed to be black shadows born out of the darkness of the forest, screaming loud and frighteningly in their foreign language.

Gondor’s guard line heard their approaching footsteps, but there was barely time to alert the whole garrison. The defense was not entirely formed up when the first enemies entered the clearing. The catapults fired their burning shots, setting some trees on fire and basking the assault in an eerie flickering light. Arrows tried to stop the flood of bodies. Some Lieutenants cried for archers to fire as one, but most soldiers were already firing in their own time, realizing they did not have the time to wait for the orders. Enemies crashed to the ground and were immediately swallowed up by darkness. The losses didn’t even slow the assault. They carried no banners, just held their swords raised high. Waves of screaming warriors streamed out of the forest, pushed forwards by a force more powerful than what had driven them to attack in the afternoon.

In the flickering fires of the burning shots and the last light of the day, the enemy’s faces were no more than shadows. But when they were close enough to Gondor’s defenses to distinguish them, not only the human faces of Southrons were visible in the twilight. There were other faces, black, ugly, deformed, horrible, their eyes wide and their mouths wide open in terrible screams.

“Orcs!” someone shouted, and the cry was repeated throughout the ranks. ”Orcs!”

“Orcs!” Faramir shook his head and fought the urge to snort. The Southrons had withdrawn to join their forces with a host of Orcs that was only able to fight in darkness. For a short second everything made sense. Faramir did not have the time for more thought, for the assaulting armies had reached the defense line of Gondor, and there was no sense to be found in anything anymore. Skillfully forged blades met crude metal. Reality was drowned in the sound, pain and feeling of the impact.

Madness.

Fire and smoke.

The smell of burned flesh and fresh blood.

The screams of the dying, the angry, high pitched battle cries of the living.

The two armies met in a violent embrace for the second time, an embrace that almost pushed Gondor’s defenders to their knees with the force and terror of the onslaught.

“Hold the line!” Faramir heard Boromir’s voice thunder above unbearable noise, confusion and barely repressed panic. “Swordsmen to the front. Archers fire in your own time. Hold the line!”

It was impossible to count them. Orcs and Southrons danced around each other, sometimes slaughtered each other by mistake, but it did not matter to them. There were enough warriors hidden in the trees, waiting impatiently to enter the clearing and fight. They did not even bother to fire their catapults to clear a path for their main forces. They screamed like madmen until their lungs forced them to draw breath, fighting with anger, almost desperation. The men of Gondor fought bravely, but they were no match for the two armies that attacked as if possessed with fury.

Faramir freed his sword from the torso of a slain enemy and took a moment to look around. Some Orcs and Southrons had breached the lines of defense and were fighting their way towards the ruins of eastern Osgiliath. Arrows stopped them, but more and more of their comrades broke through. Soon the arrows would not be able to stop all of them any more. The battle was going to continue in the city. They would not be able to protect the ruins much longer.

The clearing was covered with dead bodies. Faramir could not determine how many of them were of the enemy and how many soldiers of Gondor were left to defend the ruins and the bridge. They could not stay in the open field to be overrun by two armies sent by dark forces nobody ever spoke of. Faramir knew they had to retreat to another battlefield, to the streets and dark passages of the ruins, where they had a small advantage, for the men of Osgiliath knew where the dusty paths led. Where they could fight like the men of the city most of them had been born to be.

Faramir searched for and found his brother’s gaze. Boromir nodded and lifted the horn of Gondor to his lips. The Captain General blew the order for retreat. The sound was louder than the noises of battle. The men of Gondor who had longed to hear that sound while desperately battling for their lives gladly moved backwards in defense, slowly making for Osgiliath’s eastern perimeter.

“Second and third rank, form up to defend the bridge!” Boromir shouted. “Destroy the catapults you have to abandon. Osgiliath, pair up with those of Ithilien that do not know their way around the ruins. Archers to the buildings! Send a messenger to the White City! Protect the bridge!”

Faramir did not need to encourage his Rangers to follow the orders. Those that were still able to walk moved backwards towards the ruins. There was still hope left. The battle on the open field was lost, but they had not yet lost the day. The enemy might be able to enter Osgiliath’s ancient streets, but they would pay with blood for every stone they walked on.

 

 

The horn of Gondor called for retreat.

Anakil raised his head and slowly got to his feet. His hands were trembling again, but the tremor was not as bad as during the first battle. Finally something was happening, something very important in this new battle that had started some time ago. He could feel shadows moving towards the city, shadows like those he had felt in Ithilien, when he had been hunting rabbits with Anborn, moving further east than he had ever been. He did not like the shadows at all.

One of the older boys came running towards the stables, his eyes full of fear. “A messenger to the city!” he shouted, then he bent over to gasp and catch his breath. “Orders from the Captain, a messenger to the city now!”

The Poet called for a horse, and one of the older messengers soon cantered away to cross the bridge.

“There are thousands of them. Thousands! Southrons! Orcs!” The boy almost sobbed. “Some of them are living shadows! They have come back from the dead. There are so many of them.”

The Poet put a soothing hand on the boy’s shoulder and bent down to whisper a few words into his ear. The boy nodded slowly and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“What do we do now?” Anakil asked, playing nervously with his trembling hands. He had somehow gotten used to the smell that lingered above the eastern part of the garrison. The noise of the battle was very near. Smoke obscured the pale moon.

“We retreat as well,” Beldil answered. “The battle has reached the outskirts of Osgiliath. Hopefully, our warriors can hold the advance there, but we cannot depend on that. We have to retreat to the bridge. Take as many horses as you can guide alone and follow the others.”

Anakil nodded, relieved to be able to leave the eastern shore. “What about the wounded?” he asked. “Don’t they need the horses to carry the wounded?”

“The healers will care for the wounded. They have a lot of aides and many litters,” Beldil said. “Hurry, we do not have much time.”

Anakil nodded again and disappeared inside the stables to fetch some of the horses.

 

 

The ruins of Osgiliath slowed the advance of the Southrons and Orcs, but Gondor’s forces could not stop their assault. With fire, smoke, steel, terror and madness the enemy slowly but steadily entered more and more streets of the ancient city. They left their dead and dying in their wake, as well as the fast growing losses of Gondor. Impenetrable darkness seemed to move with them, darkness that was deeper and far more menacing than the darkness of the night.

The ruins were burning. Smoke rose from every patch of grass. Screaming, shouting, cries for help. The noise was unbearable. Some had climbed the ruins to shoot and pour fire from above. Most of them were pierced by many arrows. Gondor’s catapults burned where they had been abandoned by their crews. Lieutenants and experienced soldiers tried to form defense lines in the narrow streets. Most of them were just trampled down by the advancing enemy.

Two lines held the bridge, spouting fiery arrows onto the advancing troops, covering the slow retreat. Most of the horses had found a refuge behind those lines. Messengers, boys and wounded that were not able to fight waited anxiously, cursing their own inability to fight and protect. The healers were still busy carrying litters with sick and wounded men behind the protection of the line. The horses were frightened, moving restlessly, drawing their masters’ full attention. The waiting men on the bridge only whispered to each other. A few torches lit the night, the only other light came from the flames of the eastern shore.

The two Captains fought with their men, shouting orders. Both of them knew they could not expect reinforcements for at least a day, they had to protect the bridge and the path into the heart of Gondor with those men that were left standing between the ruins of Gondor’s pride of old.

Something hard stuck the back of Faramir’s head. The Captain went down, his vision blurred. He landed hard, the hilt of a fallen sword buried itself deep into his stomach. He closed his eyes to avoid the dirt and ash his body stirred on the ground. His hearing gave out for a second. When his senses cleared, he heard his brother shout his name. He opened his eyes and saw Boromir rush towards him, killing two Orcs on the way. His brother’s eyes reflected a strange light. Faramir was still stunned, but he started to feel an uncomfortable heat that was spreading on his back. Boromir bent down, grabbed his brother’s body with one gloved hand and rolled him around. It was then that Faramir realized his borrowed cloak had been on fire.

“Thank you!” he coughed.

Orcs were all around the brothers, but Boromir held them at bay until Faramir had shed his cloak, scrambled to his feet and readied his sword. “We have to protect the bridge!” Boromir shouted. “For the moment the eastern shore is lost, but they have not yet set foot onto the bridge.”

“Gondor’s soldiers cannot retreat further!” Faramir shouted back. “The healers have not yet evacuated all the wounded.”

“We will win back the east! For now, we have to protect the bridge!” Boromir reached for his horn to sound the order, but he never wielded it.

For suddenly, there was an unnatural shrieking in the air. Shadows born between flames attacked, stronger than any warrior made of flesh. Darkness itself took on shapes, tall and terrible, like riders of death, black. The air grew darker than darkness could possibly be, alive with tangible fear and unbearable horror. Every breath consisted of agony, choking and burning. Terror clouded the minds of the bravest. Reason and courage were abandoned.

The army of Gondor dissolved and fled in panic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. The 20th of June Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed I posted the unbeta-ed version of this chapter by accident, so here is the correct version with (hopefully) no more typos and mistakes.

>Author’s note: I noticed I posted the unbeta-ed version of this chapter by accident, so here is the correct version with (hopefully) no more typos and mistakes.  
Shakes>

XVII

The horses had been nervous and skittish ever since the battle had started, and being on the open bridge had not improved their behavior. Anakil led two animals on short reins. He tried to calm them with his voice and hands, but he knew he was not very convincing in his efforts. He wouldn’t have been able to fool a blind and deaf man into believing that everything was all right, how could he think about calming down two horses? The boy’s breaking voice was trembling, his hands cold and sweaty. The reins had chafed open the flesh between his thumbs and his index fingers.

The battle was coming close. He could almost make out the faces of the fighting men between the ruins, red in the flickering light of small fires. There were two voices audible above the noise, the Captains’, and even though he could not understand the words, he was glad that there were still human voices directing the chaos.

But then something changed. The horses sensed it first and bolted in terror. The reins were ripped from Anakil’s hands, leaving bloody marks on his palms. He cried out in protest and anger, until suddenly, mere seconds later, he felt it as well.

Whatever there had been left of order was gone. There was no sense to be found in anything any more; darkness itself seemed to be out of control.

Everything, everyone - all the bodies and voices and swords and sounds, fire and smoke, the air itself and every bit of light - stopped, turned and fled to the west. The only path to the west was the bridge, and suddenly the high arch over the water was crowded with men, beasts, shadows. The ground shook under the impact of boots and hooves; the wooden planks creaked under the onslaught of weight. There was a terrible shrieking in the air, louder and more terrifying than anything audible in the fighting before. Darkness was moving, as fast as a fast rider, clouded by terror.

Nothing was important any more. Anakil closed his eyes to block out the approaching horror. He did not care that the enemy set foot on the bridge. He did not care that he had lost the horses in his care. He did not care that he deserted his post. He did not care that black arrows reached the bridge, pierced the flesh of men next to him, caused them to stumble and fall, that bloodied blades brushed past him, tried to reach him, met other targets, sometimes just cut through the air without causing harm. He did not care whether he lived or died. All he cared about just now was one single thought:

He wanted it to stop.

He wanted to reach a place where there would be peace and light, where he could breathe freely again.

At first he did not realize he had started to stagger forwards. His eyes were squeezed shut, he pressed his bloody hand to his ears, and he stumbled over bodies, stones and wood to cross the bridge. Other fleeing men bumped into him, caused him to slow down to regain his balance. He heard voices trying to shout over the chaos of an army in disordered retreat, but he did not listen to them. Something struck his leg just below his knee, and he went down. He had to take his hands off his ears to soften the fall. Sharp rocks and pebbles cut into his palms. He did not notice the pain. He pushed himself first to his knees, then to his feet again and continued moving. Nothing mattered except getting away. He did not waste energy on opening the eyes and facing reality. Heavy hooves kicked him, sharp teeth grazed his collar. He went down again, regained his feet again, only to continue moving, just moving, away from the darkness and the shrieking, away from the living shadows that threatened to trample him, swallow him.

Something caught his ankle and forced him to stop. He struggled to free his leg, but a tight grip on his left foot him prevented him from moving. He shouted a cry of anger, fear and frustration, and the human sound, even though it was a sound of terror and despair, helped him to clear a part of his mind of the panic that had taken hold of him.

Slowly he opened his eyes and shook some damp and dirty hair out of his face. He was on the highest point of the bridge, close to the parapet that ran along the northern road. His hands were in pain. He stared at his palms in the flickering firelight and noticed blood and dirt. He remembered falling down more than once, remembered the feeling of pebbles and sharp stones cutting his flesh. He lowered his gaze. His breeches were torn at the knees, and there was blood and dirt there as well.

A long, thin piece of leather had wrapped itself around his left ankle, tying his foot to the ground. He reached down to free himself and realized the leather was part of the loose reins of two horses. The horses were to his left, stopped in their flight by the reins that they had dragged over the road and that had become entangled between fallen stones and wooden planks. The animals were frightened, kicking out with their hind legs, neighing; their eyes wide with panic.

Anakil freed his ankle. He was too occupied coping with his own fear to take in the chaos around him. But he had found something that tied him to a small part of reality, that prevented his mind from blocking out everything, from giving in to the terror and the urge to flee to the west.

He was not alone.

He was needed.

The two terrified horses needed his help and guidance to reach a safer place alive and unharmed. He tried to talk to them and realized he did not have a voice. As soon as the horses were no longer tethered to the ground they started pulling on the reins and dancing around the boy. Anakil tugged forcefully on the reins to turn their heads towards the western shore, and they moved into that direction, together as one, as if pulling a carriage, the small, light human body between their strong necks. Anakil clung to the reins at the bit of the bridles and led himself be dragged along, taking great care to stay on his feet and between the horses, protected by their bodies but not trapped between them.

His gaze focused on the road ahead, and in the chaos of the retreat he recognized the Captains. They were standing back to back next to the Great Hall of Osgiliath, their swords drawn. The great blades were gleaming in the light of the torches in the yard and of small fires. Captain Boromir faced the western shore. Anakil could hear his deep voice booming above the chaos, shouting orders none of the fleeing men choose to acknowledge. Captain Faramir looked to the east. Anakil was close enough to see the fear, anguish and panic he felt mirrored on the Captain’s face. But despite the agony of facing the terror the Ranger Captain stood firm at his brother’s back, shouting as well, trying to convince the terrified men that not everything was lost, that there was still a chance to protect the direct path into the heart of Gondor, that the threatening darkness was not invincible. The Ranger Captain had lost his cloak, and his white shirt was burned and dirty, showing glimpses of the chainmail he wore underneath.

Anakil did not understand every word the two Captains were shouting, but it was enough to see them, to focus on something more real than the terror around him. “Easy, boys!” he shouted at the horses and was surprised to hear his own voice again. He tugged at the reins he held in both hands, and the animals slowed down a little, their ears pressed flat to their skulls to listen to the human voice. “Easy!” Anakil repeated. “Easy, boys!“ He did not know if he was talking to calm down the animals, or if he wanted to assure himself that the horror would be over soon. The horses stopped in their fast walk and turned their heads to look at him. “Easy!” he said again. He started to take in his surroundings and realized that many men streamed past him. Most of the horses had already reached the western shore, only a few of them were still under the control of soldiers or boys.

Then he felt the shadows again, moving faster, very near now. The terrible shrieking began again. He heard the soldiers next to him, the enemies behind him, the horses, his own voice, cry out in fear. The shadows were not only moving faster, they were accompanied by thunder now, loud and threatening like the heavy hooves of horses on wood and stone. Anakil wanted to turn around to face the darkness that was about to swallow him, but he was unable to move his head. The horses reared. The boy clung to the reins; his feet were lifted off the ground. A second later he felt solid stone under his boots again. He expected, almost wanted the horses to bolt and drag him along, but they did not run. They were paralysed with fear, their bodies trembled but they did not flee. Anakil felt the shadows and the thunder brushing his neck. He wanted to cry out in fear once more, but his voice was gone again.

Time stopped.

Then the shadows had passed him, darker than darkness, shrouded in a cloud of terror. He thought he caught a glimpse of horses and riders, black and terrible, but he could not be sure. Maybe there were just shadows in the flickering fires.

“Watch out!” he heard the voice of Captain Faramir. The Ranger Captain saw and felt the shadows approach, grabbed his brother who faced in the other direction by the shoulders and pushed him away from the road into the yard of the Great Hall, throwing him to the ground.

The shadows passed over where the Captains had been only seconds before. Then they were gone.

The thunder of hooves faded in the distance, and the darkness of the night became bearable again. Anakil realized he had been holding his breath and sucked in air greedily. The air seemed cold and fresh, and he had never tasted anything this good. There was ash and the stench of death, but there was no suffocating terror any more.

Silence.

No more arrows pierced the darkness. The horses remained still. A few stars were visible in the dark sky, illuminating an eerie scene. Every living being, even the enemy, seemed to catch its breath.

“Form a line of defence!” Captain Boromir’s voice. The Captain strode out of the yard of the Great Hall, his cloak and hair dusty from the fall but his head and sword raised high. “The bridge is not lost. Gondor is not defeated! Osgiliath to me!”

“Ithilien to me!” Captain Faramir stood on a fallen stone in the yard to be seen by his men. “The shadow has disappeared. Ithilien to me!”

Some of the men obeyed. The terror was gone and the shadows had passed into the west, reason returned to Gondor’s army. The men saw many enemies on the eastern part of the bridge, slowly, almost hesitating approaching the Great Hall of Osgiliath in a mass of bodies and swords. The force of the onslaught had disappeared with the shadows. Gondor’s soldiers knew how to fight an army that was not shrouded with terror and darkness. Seeing some their comrades take up positions again, more soldiers overcame the terror and joined the lines, listened to their Captains and Lieutenants again.

“Ithilien to me!”

“Osgiliath to me!”

Every man within earshot moved to be at his Captains’ side. Three lines of defence formed quickly, two lines of swordsmen in the front, at their back a line of archers. The enemy’s approach stopped, giving Gondor’s forces precious time to form an organized defence out of chaotic retreat.

“Ithilien to me!”

“Osgiliath to me!”

Anakil found himself and the horses on the wrong side of the line. His hands grabbed the bridles of the terrified horses, and he started pulling the animals forward. For the first time during the retreat on the bridge he noticed that the northern road was littered with the bodies of dead, injured and dying. The horses followed his lead. He kept talking to calm them.

Suddenly a bloodied hand took hold of the reins of one of the horses. “Thank you, Anakil,” Captain Faramir’s voice said. The Captain leapt on the bare back of the animal and steered it towards the closing lines of defence.

“Get behind the lines and out of trouble, boy,” Captain Boromir’s voice advised. The boy let go of the bridle of the remaining animal and stepped back to avoid the boots that barely missed his head as the Captain mounted the bare backed horse. The messengers and boys had not bothered to ready every horse they had led out of the stables during the retreat to the bridge.

Anakil took the Captain’s advice and made his way to the back of the lines.

 

 

Boromir of Gondor looked down at what was left of the Osgiliath garrison and the Ithilien Rangers from his elevated position on the back of the frightened horse. He saw his brother close by, also mounted, struggling to get the attention of the bare backed animal. Faramir was talking to the skittish steed, and for a moment Boromir envied him the ability to find words of comfort in a moment like this. He had no words to calm down his nervous mount; all he could do was keep the horse under control with his strength and weight.

The forces of the enemy were a few hundred yards away, holding position to regroup on the narrow bridge. They had suffered numerous losses, but compared to the army of Gondor their strength was overwhelming. Boromir guessed they outnumbered his frightened soldiers more than five to one.

He had fought and won battles against all odds. He had always been able to count on the skill and courage of every single man of Gondor. He had always known that Gondor was strong, that Gondor would never lose neither hope nor heart.

His heart swelled with pride at the knowledge that despite the fall of eastern Osgiliath nothing had changed. He could see determination in the faces of the men that looked to him for orders. He could hear it in the Lieutenant’s voices that were calling for discipline and courage. Despite the shadow that had touched them moments ago, that had put fear into the hearts of the boldest, despite the knowledge that they had fled like boys and had left the wounded behind, despite facing death in the darkness of the night, Gondor was still strong.

The Ithilien Company, greatly reduced in numbers but unbroken in will, had gathered as one at the left flank of the third line, holding up the hope that even though eastern Osgiliath was lost, the lands of northern Ithilien had not fallen as well.

The two Captains cantered in front of Gondor’s defences, placing themselves boldly in plain view of the enemy’s archers, but they were neither challenged nor attacked. The enemy’s advance had come to a stop three hundred yards before the yard of the Great Hall where Gondor’s defences were assembled. Only Gondor’s two Captains on the bare backed horses moved between the two bloodied armies confined to the span of the great, but suddenly much too narrow, bridge.

“Hold position!” Captain Boromir shouted. “Hold your fire! Nobody moves to attack!” His horse reared, and the Captain forced it down with his weight. “Hold position!” he repeated. “Those who have not yet joined the lines, report to your Lieutenants!”

“Assemble in good order!” Captain Faramir added. “Those unable to fight take cover between the ruins. Ithilien answers to Osgiliath!”

Anakil looked for the Poet, but he did not see the old messenger. It was very dark now on the bridge, most of the fires had burnt down to nothing but glowing ashes. There was nothing left to be eaten by the flames between the ruins.

The army of Gondor that had formed three lines on the northern and southern road, around the yard of the Great Hall and a few more ruins, seemed small and fragile. How could it be that there were so few of them left? Anakil did not want to think about all the men they had lost in the fight and the retreat. They could hear screams from the injured and dying somewhere on the bridge. They had left comrades behind on the eastern shore, injured men unable to walk, healers unwilling to leave their patients, boys too frightened even to flee, archers trapped somewhere between the ruins.

Anakil covered his face with his hands for a moment, leaving bloody marks on his cheeks. The first thing he had been taught after joining the army had been one simple rule:

You never ever leave a comrade!

They had failed bitterly this night. All of them. He could only hope that the enemy had been merciful enough to grant a quick death to those they had left behind in their panic.

He did not know what to do next. He was no boy any more, his place was not behind the lines where the boys had to regroup and report to the Lieutenant. Messengers were requested to meet at the stables, that was all he knew about being a messenger during a battle, but there were no stables on the bridge. Of course there were stables on the western shore, but he did not think it would be the right thing to do to set a foot on the western shore just now. Some of those that had reached the western shore in the retreat were slowly returning to join the defence. The boy desperately hoped that his brothers were somewhere among the men. He did not see them in the lines of defence, but he was too small to see many faces.

“I am glad to see you are still among the living, my young apprentice,” a deep voice addressed him from behind.

Anakil turned around. His first thought was to throw both arms around the Poet and tell him how good it was to see him alive, but he knew the Poet would not welcome such a desperate gesture of affection. He restrained the impulse and just nodded at the tall man. “I am glad that you are alive, too,” he said. His voice was more hoarse than usual; he had inhaled a lot of smoke and dust.

It was good to see a familiar face, to have someone to talk to, someone who might be able to provide some answers. “What do we do now?” he asked. “I know that messengers are supposed to meet at the stables, but I am not sure whether it would be wise to go to the western stables. I don’t know what to do. Nothing makes sense. There are so few of us now. So very few. So many are gone or on the western shore, so few are left in the line, and there are so many of them. I know we cannot repel an attack, but I know we cannot retreat further, for we need the bridge…” He realized he was rambling about and stopped his own flood of words. The Poet was listening patiently. Anakil remembered what he had learnt about words in the past weeks, about the power that lay in words, information, knowledge and understanding.

“I don’t understand it,” he started again. “We do not have a chance of winning a fight on the bridge. Why did we retreat in the beginning? Why did the army choose to fight between the ruins?”

The Poet chuckled and smiled. “So many questions, but alas, so little time at hand for answers.” Anakil was shocked by the affectionate, almost tender smile on the narrow, dirty face. “My young apprentice, it is better to have a living army, ready to continue fighting this battle and many battles in the future, than to sacrifice the men on a battlefield that is already lost.”

Anakil understood what he meant, but he did not want to believe that the place that had been his home for ten months would never be the same again. “Captain Boromir has never lost a battle before,” he whispered. “Why Osgiliath? How could this happen? What did we do wrong?”

“Sometimes things happen without anyone doing something wrong.” The Poet put a heavy hand on Anakil’s shoulder. “Things happen, my famous young apprentice.”

Things happen. The Rangers of Ithilien had often told him that sometimes things just happened without obvious reasons. “What do we do now?”

“Sometimes the power of words is not strong enough. Sometimes there is no use in talking because nobody is listening.” The Poet put his free hand to his sword. “A long time before you were born I promised the man who is our lord today that if I ever saw a time where the power of words have failed, I would add the weight of my sword to the weight of words, even though I stopped fighting that way a long time ago. Today I will honor this promise.”

“So you and I have to fight?” Anakil knew he was not able to fight in this battle. He could hold a sword, he could behead an Orc from behind, but he could not fight a battle and hope to survive it. “Even if there is so much lost already?”

“We fight.” The Poet bowed his head in a crisp salute. “For even though we have lost much, there is still a lot left to loose. May the Valar guide your steps, until we meet again, my young apprentice.”

The Poet bowed again and disappeared in the lines of defense.

 

 

Boromir saw that Faramir’s face was grim, dirty and bloodied, but his eyes sparkled with the unbending will to protect the heart of Gondor. The eastern shore might have fallen; the bridge was not lost yet. Boromir searched for his brother’s gaze, and when their eyes met for a moment, he saw that they understood each other. None of them knew what it had been that had driven the men into chaotic retreat, that had clouded their hearts with shadows and had filled their minds with terror, none of them knew why the enemy was regrouping before attacking again, but both of them knew what had to be done.

They were the sons of the Steward, Captains of his army, but they were also soldiers of Gondor. Soldiers that felt hope and fear like every soldier in the lines behind them. Soldiers that knew what they were fighting for. There would be hope for Gondor as long as her soldiers did not stop caring about the land and about each other and did what was necessary, even though it would be painful.

“Hold your fire!” Boromir shouted again. He knew they would not release arrows without being commanded to do so, but he wanted them to hear his voice.

He could see a large group of soldiers gathered on the western shore. Those men did not have the heart to come back to a place where a terrible shadow had touched them, and he could not condemn them. They had fought well for Gondor, and even though he needed every single man to do what had to be done, he knew those men strong enough to fight to the end had to be enough.

The bridge of Osgiliath had always been a symbol for the defence of Gondor. It had been broken in the past and the broken parts had been mended to be strong and reliable again. But sometimes it was necessary to destroy something that had turned from a symbol of strength into a threat to survival.

 

 

Anakil noticed that something was missing behind the lines. There were no boys. Lieutenant Darin was nowhere to be seen or heard. The loud voice of the Lieutenant had always been audible during the many drills. The boy had hated that strict voice, but now that it was gone he missed it. He was no longer afraid of battle. There had been battle and death all day, he had seen so much horror that it did not matter any more if there was more pain and death before the end. Suddenly he was afraid of being useless, of being meaningless, of dying at the hand of the enemy without being missed afterwards.

A hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around. He gasped in surprise. Black, terrified eyes met his, and suddenly he did not feel so alone any more.

Irion was standing behind him. Irion, the boy that had always teased him and that had called him a coward. And Irion was obviously frightened and confused as well, and he seemed almost glad to have found him. “Anakil,” the taller boy gasped, out of breath. “You are needed. A Ranger called Anborn told me to look for you. You are needed. You and me and every other boy we can find.”

Anakil wanted to protest, wanted to state that he was not a boy any more, but he realized that that would be a lie. Right now, he was a boy, because the look in Irion’s eyes mirrored his own expression. “There is nobody there,” he said. “I have not seen Lieutenant Darin. It’s just the two of us.”

“We are needed,” Irion repeated and pulled Anakil away from the lines, into the yard of the Great Hall. “We are needed. Anborn needs us.”

 

 

A single arrow shot into the dark sky, missing the enemy but breaking the silence that had once again settled in between the two armies.

“Hold your fire!” Boromir shouted, angry. They needed every second the enemy delayed the attack to fortify the defences. They could afford no provocation.

 

 

The bridge trembled slightly, first barely noticeable, then the air was filled with an almost rhythmic thunder. It took Anakil some time to realize where the sound and movement was coming from. The enemy’s army, men and Orcs alike, were stamping their feet. The noise grew louder, suddenly accompanied by the sound of steel moving through the air. Anakil fought the urge to cover his ears and try to block out the terrifying sound.

“Hold your fire!” Captain Boromir shouted again. His horse was dancing in front of the line; he had trouble keeping the frightened animal under control.

Captain Faramir dismounted and handed the reins of his horse over to one of the soldiers that stood behind the lines. Anakil recognized one of the messengers and Beldil standing next to him, and he smiled, although it felt oddly out of place. He had not seen his friend since leaving the eastern stables and was glad to see him alive.

 

 

The enemy started shouting. Wild cries of battle pierced the air. The human voices of the Southrons sounded inhuman. The enemy was mocking them, challenging them. Boromir raised his sword, still struggling with the horse, but there was no time to dismount safely. “Gondor!” he shouted, his gaze defying the challenge.

As sudden as the noise had started, the enemy grew quiet again. A horn called out, and the entire army moved forwards as one.

“Gondor!” Boromir lowered his sword, and hell broke loose for the third time that day.

 

 

Anakil could not stand the sounds any longer and plunged his fingers into his ears. How could anyone endure this noise, these few seconds before two armies met only a few yards away? He followed Irion, and while he ran into the yard of the Great Hall, his gaze strayed up into the sky. There were many stars visible, and he realized that it was past midnight.

A new day had begun.  



	18. The bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

XVIII

“Gondor!”

Captain Boromir’s cry was echoed by many voices. Even though he could not see them, Beldil could hear the two armies battle for control of the passage to the heart of Gondor. The messenger was not able to fight, but he could shout. And he did shout, louder than he had ever shouted before.

“Gondor!”

The numbness in his limbs vanished, and he felt pain in his broken wrist and injured arm. Maybe he had fallen down during the panicked flight from the eastern shore and could not remember it. He ignored the flaming agony as he cast away the sling that supported his right arm and bent down to pick up a fallen sword from the dust of the road, even though he knew his arm did not have the strength to wield the weapon in battle. But in the unlikely event that the lines of defence broke before the onslaught of the enemy, he would be able to fight for himself as long as his weak arm would allow him to do so. He was determined not to run but to stand strong, despite the knowledge that the odds seemed to be against them this night. No foul Orc would set foot on the western shore of the Anduin as long as one soldier of Gondor still drew breath.

“Gondor!”

Beldil raised the sword in defiance and anger, but unbearable pain in his right upper arm stopped the movement. Unwanted tears blurred his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing for a moment. The pain lessened eventually. Slowly he lowered the weapon, but he did not release his desperate grip on the sword hilt.

Beldil’s mind was clear now, but the memory of everything that had happened between leaving the eastern stables and seeing Captain Faramir dismount a bare backed horse from behind the lines near the yard of the Great Hall was hazy. He remembered limping along the northern road of the bridge, surrounded by fire, smoke and terror. And he recalled stopping in his flight, overwhelmed by agonizing fear, unable to feel and think, while a terrible shadow passed him. But the shadow was gone now, as was the panicked fear.

He had never felt this useless before. There was nothing he could do, aside from praying that the defences would stand strong.

“Gondor!”

The lines of men facing east fought an overwhelming enemy, screaming and shouting, proving once more the valour and courage of Gondor. Arrows pierced the air, and Beldil staggered backwards, dragging the sword along. He had to force himself to stop his retreat, otherwise he would have continued to the western shore. The nameless shadow that had terrified Gondor’s forces was gone, but in the aftermath of the terror it was easy to give into despair.

The messenger did not understand what could possibly have overcome the combined strength of Osgiliath and Ithilien with impossible ease. What was terrifying enough to put fear into the hearts of the boldest, to scatter Gondor’s fighting retreat into nothing but panic?

There were a lot of flickering fires on the eastern shore, no remains of battle but controlled campfires. It was painful to see that Southrons were in the process of securing the eastern part of the ancient city. Beldil could make out Orcs pulling three catapults on the arc of the bridge to support the ongoing fight.

Close behind Gondor’s fighting lines there was still a lot of confusion mixed with beginning resignation. Leaderless horses wandered about, men reluctantly made their way back from the western shore to support those that had already found the courage to fight in the defence. Some were still too terrified to raise their weapons; they hid between the ruins or staggered to the west. There were wounded everywhere, crying for help, moaning in pain. Nobody stopped to assist them. Beldil did not recognize a single healer among the men on the bridge.

He missed the boys as well. He had grown used to the sight of the small soldiers running about, and their absence was painfully obvious. He hoped that at least some of them had made it to the western shore alive.

“Do not climb the parapet! Hold the flanks!” Captain Boromir’s voice was a little hoarse.

The Captain had started the fight on horseback, but he was not visible any more. He had either dismounted or the horse had been killed. The two rows of houses on the bridge ensured that the enemy could attack with only a limited number of Southrons and Orcs, and few archers were able to pour deadly arrows on the defence of Gondor. Therefore even though they were outnumbered, the army of Gondor was able to hold its ground. The bridge and the ruins consisted of stone, blazing fire was not among the weapons they could use, but neither could it be used against them.

Beldil leaned heavily on the sword and let his gaze stray to the ruin of the Great Hall. A group of men were gathered in the small yard. The messenger recognized the Ranger Anborn among them, and for a moment he caught a glimpse of two small soldiers, one of them slender like a boy, the other a little taller and broader, but still not tall enough to be mistaken for a fully grown man. He did not see the small boy’s face, but he was sure he had spotted Anakil. That boy was attracted to trouble like a moth to light.

The messenger decided that he had to return a favour.

 

 

The bridge of Osgiliath was built to contain two rows of buildings and towers as well as two streets. Compared to average bridges the construction was vast, unique in the land of Gondor, but those who had constructed it had never thought that it might serve as a battlefield someday. There was no room for an army to manoeuvre and move in good order. The enemy could not use his advantage in numbers to simply overrun the army of Gondor and set foot on the western shore of the Anduin. The lack of space on the bridge forced Orcs and Southrons to attack the forces of Gondor in a long but narrow column, nothing more than a spearhead of their army. The buildings at their back assured that only the first lines of the assault spanned the width of the bridge. The reinforcements impatiently awaiting their turn to engage Gondor had to stand either to the left or to the right of the buildings and therefore could not coordinate their movements easily, for they could not see each other.

Boromir knew his men did not mind the limited space on the bridge, for they were skilled fighters and did not depend on having room to manoeuvre. They had taken up position in front of the yard of the Great Hall where no buildings obscured the view and prevented communication by sight. The lines moved as one, keeping the enemy at bay. The stony ground of the bridge was littered with dead Orcs. Archers poured burning shots onto the assaulting army. The Lieutenants shouted orders to synchronize the waves of arrows.

Boromir’s horse was killed in the first minutes of the battle. A spear pierced its chest, and the Captain General had to leap to the ground to avoid being thrown into the ranks of the enemy. He stumbled and almost fell, but soldiers of Gondor grabbed his shoulders and prevented him from losing his balance. One of the men was killed by an Orc blade in this moment of distraction. Boromir felt the strength leave the steadying hand on his shoulder as the man crashed lifeless to the ground.

Soldiers of Gondor were prepared to die for their Captains. He had known this for a very long time, but he had never actually felt the life leave one of his men who had placed himself in danger to protect his Captain.

The Captain General’s blade moved restlessly, slicing flesh, severing limbs, stopped in its path by bones and armour. The black, gruesome faces of Orcs appeared before him and vanished from his field of vision when the creatures dropped to the stones under his feet. He did not count the number of slain enemies.

He only knew that maybe five hundred soldiers of Gondor were fighting this battle. Last morning he had had command over more than two thousand men. Five hundred were left standing. Some, he did not know how many, had fled to the western shore. He did not dare to think about how many they had lost.

The wound below his right shoulder throbbed, but he ignored the pain. He did not have the luxury to let himself be slowed by injury, by doubt, by fear. The defences had to hold, and even though they did not have the strength to win back the eastern shore tonight, they had to hold the bridge and protect the western shore.

Some Orcs tried to climb the parapet to pass the lines of Gondor and attack from behind, but they were pushed into the waters of the Anduin. Boromir did not know whether Orcs were able to swim, but he sincerely doubted it. The shrieks and splashes as the armoured bodies hit the water accompanied the loud music of battle.

“Faramir!” he shouted and pointed at three catapults the enemy was slowly dragging along the northern road towards the Great Hall. It would take at least twenty minutes to get the catapults within range of Gondor’s line, but when they started pouring fire and death from a safe distance, Gondor would not be able to formulate a successful answer.

His brother was within sight but out of earshot, Boromir could see him engaging two Southrons at the same time. Boromir avoided a Southron’s spear that threatened to pierce him and shouted at the top of his lungs: “Faramir!”

“He cannot hear you, my lord Captain,” a deep voice next to him said.

Boromir turned his head and managed a grim smile. “I never thought to see you bloody your sword in battle,” he said to the tall, lanky man that fought at his side.

“Desperate situations call for desperate measures, my lord,” the Poet replied and returned the smile. His face and messenger’s shirt were smeared with blood of the enemy, and his long sword killed with remarkable ease. His grey eyes sparkled in the dim light of the moon and some stars as he raised his left hand in a short salute. “It is an honour to fight at your side, my lord. But if you will trust me with your thoughts, I will be happy to relay a message. I am a courier of words and thoughts, after all.” He spoke as calmly as if he was on the training ground. His sword moved in a forceful arc to behead an approaching Orc. The severed head dropped to the ground, the body followed seconds later. “As always, I consider it an honour to offer my services as bearer of spoken words.”

Boromir snorted and explained in short sentences what he wanted Faramir to know.

A wave of burning arrows skewered a group of Orcs, yet their dark cloaks did not catch fire. Boromir had noticed before that some of the Orcs seemed to have treated their clothes with some fire-resistant substance. One of them plucked a burning arrow from his shoulder and continued attacking. But the dark, stringy hair that stuck out from below their helmets and leather caps was susceptible to flames. As the attacking Orc threw the burning arrow aside, his hair caught fire, and seconds later his head was enveloped in bright flames. The creature shrieked in pain and bolted in panic, setting some of his comrades on fire in his desperate battle with the flames.

The bowmen continued firing, concentrating on the Orcs’ heads, turning more and more of them into living torches. But they could only keep the onslaught at bay; they could not force the enemy to retreat. For one casualty of Gondor the enemy lost ten. But Orcs and Southrons did not slow in their assault and continued trampling over the dead bodies of their comrades, sometimes shoving them aside in fury, to reach Gondor’s lines.

“Tell Faramir to take all the men he needs,” Boromir ended his explanations. “There have to be some engineers among the living. We will hold position as long as necessary.”

“Captain Faramir knows that he does not have the luxury of time today. He will shoot a fiery arrow as soon as everything is prepared.” The Poet bowed deeply, his eyes scanning the enemy for any possible danger. “I will be back soon to fight at your side once more, my lord.” The old messenger ducked to avoid an arrow and disappeared in the fighting lines.

 

 

“Let go of me, Irion!” Anakil hit the fist that clawed at his shirt with his flat hand. “I can follow you on my own.”

“I’m sorry.” Irion removed his hand. “I am a little … nervous.”

Anakil chuckled. “Me too, I guess.” The chuckle turned into a cough. There were no great fires on the bridge, but he had inhaled a lot of smoke on the eastern shore.

Irion’s shirt was torn and dirty. Anakil noticed a shallow cut on the boy’s back, and there was blood in the dishevelled black hair. The other boy was not armed, and suddenly Anakil remembered the short sword dangling at his hip. He had not thought of it during his flight to the west. He touched the hilt with his fingertips. The battle was very close, the screams and sounds of steel meeting steel were deafening. Sometimes a stray arrow passed him or landed at his feet, and he put out the small burning shot with his boot without giving it a thought.

Irion led him across the yard to the entrance of the Great Hall. Anakil remembered this yard well; here the frightened boy that had returned from his adventure in Ithilien had received proper punishment at Captain Boromir’s hand. His career as a messenger had started here, and now he was back, not as a proud messenger but once more as a frightened boy.

There were no guards at the great gate. No torches lit the group of men that had gathered close to the entrance to the ruin, but Anakil recognized Anborn’s sturdy back among them.

Irion stopped close to the Ranger, and Anakil decided to stay a step behind him. “Anborn. I’m sorry,” Irion panted. ”There are no boys on the bridge,”

Anborn turned around. His cloak was bloody, but his face was remarkably clean.

“I did not find Lieutenant Darin. No one has seen him on the bridge,” Irion continued. “I looked everywhere. I’m sorry.”

Anborn nodded, his expression unreadable. “Thank you for your help, Irion,” he said and put a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “I am afraid we have to depend on you alone then.”

“Anborn…,” Anakil started, but a strong urge to cough stopped him.

“Troublemaker?” Anborn said, surprised. “I did not see you. You look terrible.”

Under other circumstances Anakil would have been offended that Anborn had not noticed him behind the taller boy, but this was not the time or place for gestures of unnecessary pride. “Anborn….” Anakil wanted to answer, but all he could do was cough. One of the men handed him a waterskin, and he drank greedily. Irion took a step backwards and slapped his back. The water helped clear his throat. “You need boys, you have two of them,” Anakil finally managed to say.

“I had hoped for more of you, but I am sure you two will manage just fine,” Anborn put one arm around each boys’ shoulders and pulled them into the centre of the assembled men. “Listen, this is what we should do,” he started; his speech faster than Anakil knew was his wont.

The boy could feel the strain in the muscles of Anborn’s arm. The experienced Ranger was nervous as well.

Anakil guessed there were about forty men gathered in the yard. Most of them wore the dark cloaks of the Ithilien Rangers, but there were some in the garb of Osgiliath as well. It was too dark to see their faces. All of them carried long swords and had not bothered to sheathe them. They were impatient; most were constantly moving, obviously eager to join the battle raging behind them but bound to this place by curiosity.

“We cannot win this fight. We cannot even hold the bridge until morning. We cannot expect reinforcements within the next twenty-four hours, therefore we cannot harbour any hope of successfully defending the western shore.” Anborn’s fast words were hard, but they were the truth. Anakil could feel the man’s fists clenching and unclenching. None of the assembled men dared to utter a sound of protest. “We can only hope that our defences will stand strong until we have found a way to destroy the bridge.”

“Destroy the bridge?” Anakil had not meant to think aloud, but he could not take back his words. The bridge had been built to stand for centuries, nobody had ever thought that it would have to be destroyed some day to protect the western shore from the evil that lived in the east. “How?” he added.

“The bridge was broken in the past and mended with wooden planks. We must destroy or burn every piece of wood that was used to repair this bridge. Should we fail in our endeavours; the western shore will eventually fall.”

Anakil and Irion shared a look. They were errand runners that knew the bridge well, far better than the men of Ithilien and better than most men of Osgiliath. They knew exactly where the wooden planks Anborn was talking of were located. Gondor had retreated to fast and without order, now there was an army of Orcs and Southrons between them and those planks. Irion slowly shook his head and closed his eyes. They did not have catapults to destroy the plank or set them on fire, and it was impossible to spread flames of this magnitude by arrows alone. Anborn was right, Gondor’s defences would not last the night.

“Anborn, this is madness,” one of the men objected.

Anakil nodded eagerly. “The crucial planks are located between the first three piers on the eastern side,” he explained. ”We are between the third and the forth, and so is the greatest part of the enemy’s army.” His hands moved restlessly while he spoke. “I know this place well.”

The men of Ithilien groaned in desperation, Irion and those of Osgiliath nodded in agreement.

“That’s why you and Irion are here,” Anborn said. “The men of the garrison told me there is no one that knows this place better than the boys and errand runners from the eastern shore. You have to find a way for us to reach the planks. Captains Boromir and Faramir and our forces can deal with an army cut off from reinforcements.” He silenced the boys’ and the men’s protests with a sharp gaze. “Listen to me before you object. We do not have much time at hand.” He squeezed Anakil’s shoulder.

“This is what we will do,” he started again. “Anakil and Irion will each lead a company of twenty men behind the enemy’s main forces on the bridge. I do not know this garrison well, but there has to be a way to pass through the ruins of the houses and towers between the roads without being noticed. It is dark, and they do not expect us to try and slip past their lines. The company that reaches the planks first either destroys them beyond repair and throws them into the river or paints them with tar and sets them on fire. We will move in complete darkness. As long as the enemy does not know that only two small companies unable to harm their main forces have slipped past their lines, they will approach us with extreme caution and maybe leave us the opportunity to do what we have to do.”

“This is madness!” one of the men shouted. “If we reach the planks, and I sincerely doubt we will, no one in the companies will leave this battlefield alive. The bridge is vast, and most planks span the entire width of the structure, we will never be able to move about this freely to destroy their entire length. Tar burns well, but not well enough, the enemy will put out the fires, and we will have achieved nothing. Your plan is nothing but useless suicide.”

“It might be suicide, but if we succeed, it will save us all.” Anborn’s voice was almost pleading. “I will listen to suggestions, but if you have none, then this plan is our only chance.”

“What if the planks are not destroyed easily?”

“What if there is no way?”

“The safety of Gondor depends on the leadership of two boys?”

“If we have to die today, I would rather die fighting then be slain in the yard of some ruin.”

“Does the Captain know about this madness?”

Anakil searched and found Irion’s gaze. They had to cross more than a thousand yards to reach the first planks. The other boy shook his head. Anakil felt the same, but Anborn was right. They had to try to destroy the bridge, and without catapults to bring down the structure, burning the planks was their only chance. Anborn had trusted him on their ill-fated hunt in Ithilien, and now he trusted him to find a way where there seemed to be none. He closed his eyes and imagined moving through the scattered ruins on the bridge, hiding behind fallen stones and in roofless buildings. A lonely soldier might be able to remain hidden, a company of men would be too obvious to be missed. But maybe Anborn was right, maybe, under the cover of darkness and confusion, there was a way. He would find it or die trying.

“Maybe we can find a way!” he said. Nobody listened. The men were shouting without order. Some of them grasped the hilts of their weapons and turned to join the fighting lines. “We can find a way!” he shouted.

Anborn squeezed his shoulder. The men grew quiet. Irion stared at him in shock, then he understood. The battle was near, and it was desperate. Anborn’s plan was madness, but madness was all that was left to them just now. This was the only way. They had to appear sure of themselves, even though in truth they were far from it. “We can find a way,” Irion confirmed.

“The bear’s cubs want to enter the dragon’s lair?” a deep voice asked. The Poet.

“We do not have time for discussions.” Anakil recognized Captain Faramir’s calm voice. The group of men parted to admit the Captain to their midst. Anborn stepped aside and nodded at his Captain. His hand disappeared from Anakil’s shoulder, and without the warm, reassuring gesture Anakil knew he did not appear so sure of himself any more.

“I agree with you that Anborn’s plan is madness and would most probably lead to the death of all men involved. But nevertheless I thank all of you for considering it,” the Captain said. “There is another way of bringing this bridge down. As we speak, three catapults are being dragged onto the bridge to support the enemy in battle. We cannot capture those catapults and hold them for long, but that might not be necessary.”

He pointed to a tall tower just behind the Great Hall. The tower was built of giant stone blocks, and defying all odds and old age, it had not crumbled to ruins centuries ago. Wooden planks supported its lower parts. Nobody was allowed to climb it, for the engineers feared it might eventually collapse when placed under too much strain and take parts of the bridge with it. Anakil knew that not even the most careless of the boys had ever tried to climb that tower at night.

“I have talked to the engineers. They agree that one or two well placed catapult shots would be sufficient to collapse this tower. It is high enough; most likely the weight of the falling stones will crumble a part of the bridge and deny passage to the western shore.

“The enemy will drag the catapults to a position close behind their main forces. That means, once they are in position, they will be about two hundred yards away from us. We have to break their thin lines in front of this yard long enough to reach the first ruins.” He gestured to the east. “Then we have to fight for passage through the ruins to reach the catapults, capture one of them and manage to fire at least one, maybe two shots.

“I do not doubt that we will encounter heavy losses in this endeavour, but destroying a part of the bridge is the only chance we have of protecting the western shore. Captain Boromir and the army will hold position for as long as it is in their power, but I don’t have to tell you that our time is limited. Are you with me?”

Anakil realized that, should they succeed, Gondor’s army on the bridge would be cut off from the western shore as well. The tower they had to destroy was behind their lines. He was sure the men knew this, too, but they cheered nevertheless. They questioned the desperate plan of a simple Ranger, but they would never oppose their Captain’s decision.

Captain Faramir raised his hand, and the men grew quiet immediately. “Anakil. Irion.“ The Captain looked at both boys in turn. “We need your help. You have to describe the best way we can take once we have reached the first ruin.”

Anakil looked for the Poet, but he did not see the old messenger in the circle of men. Anborn smiled at him, still grateful for his earlier support.

Two hundred yards; two collapsed structures meant two hundred yards. Two hundred yards and thousands of enemies. Irion elbowed his ribs, and Anakil let his gaze stray to the first ruin the men had to pass. “If you are able to breach the enemy’s line and reach the ruins, it would be best to enter the ruin on the right, for the wall facing west has partly collapsed,” he said.

“If you enter the house on the right side, you will face few obstacles. The debris from the collapse is concentrated on the left side,” Irion said. “I have often used this house as a shortcut to reach the kitchens – my lord Captain,” he added, but Faramir told him to skip formalities and continue. Irion bowed a little. “There are many moss covered stones inside, you have to be careful not to slip.”

“It is summer, the moss is reasonably dry,” Anakil said. “There is only a single room. The eastern wall still stands, but there are no doors any more, only holes in the wall. One on the left, another one on the right side. The holes are wide enough to allow two men to pass at the same time.”

“There are many fallen statues in the yards behind which you can take cover. I do not think the enemy’s army uses the yard, it is too small, and there is too much debris scattered about. Keep to the centre of the yard, there was a path there once, and there you are best shielded from view.”

Captain Faramir and the men listened carefully, trying to commit the boys’ words to memory. Some had their eyes closed to better imagine what the interior of the ruins looked like. They could not take torches with them, and they had to move fast.

“The next building behind the yard is a fallen tower,” Irion continued. “It has collapsed completely, there is not a single room left of the structure any more.”

“You can climb the debris quite easily during daylight, but I would advise against it in the darkness, for you need both hands to do so. Keep to the left, there is a single headless statue standing where the northern windows once were. Behind the statue there is a narrow path along the foundations, littered with small stones, but it is faster to pass by there than circle the entire structure.”

“When you have passed the ruin of the tower, you reach a broad path that connects the northern and southern road, almost as broad as the path before the yard of the Great Hall. The enemy will most probably use this road, but you do not have to cross it, for now you are well behind the enemy’s lines and hopefully able to see and reach the catapults.”

“We could guide the company, if you will allow us, Captain.” Anakil did not know why he made this offer, and the moment the words left his lips he prayed that the Captain would refuse their aid. He was not a soldier, and what the Captain had in mind was not suited for either boys or messengers. Irion stared at him in shock, Irion, who had called him a coward not so long ago. Their differences were forgotten, they had to work together, and to be honest, Anakil was glad to have the taller boy at his side just now.

Captain Faramir put a hand on each boy’s shoulder. “I appreciate your courage, but for you  
I have another task in mind. The Poet will explain everything to you while we gather our strength and do what has do be done.” He raised his voice. “I need eighty men. Some of them should be engineers able to aim a catapult. We need all the horses we can get our hands on. Anborn, assemble men and beasts behind the Great Hall. Move quickly, time is slipping through our fingers.” He lowered his voice to talk to the boys once more. “Thank you for your help, young soldiers,” he said. “Poet?”

 

 

The group of men in the yard of the Great Hall quickly dissolved. Captain Faramir and Anborn disappeared behind the circular structure, engaged in urgent conversation. Only the Poet and the two boys remained in the yard. The Poet was talking, and the boys nodded at his instructions. Beldil did not understand the words, so he limped over to them.

“Getting into trouble again, Anakil?” he asked. He was slightly out of breath, the sword he dragged behind him with his injured arm was heavy.

“What did you expect?” Anakil spread his arms in mock desperation, but Beldil did not miss the fear and confusion in the boy’s eyes.

“Yesterday I would never have thought it possible that three servants of words from three different places of this realm, under command of three different Captains, would be forced to fight side by side today,” the Poet said. “But now that it has come to this, the snake’s tooth, the eagle’s wing and the bear’s cub will bloody their swords. As I told your Captain a few minutes ago, my young apprentice, desperate situations call for desperate measures.”

Beldil saw Irion open his mouth to ask a thousand questions, but Anakil elbowed his ribs and shot him a meaningful gaze. The boy had grown used to the Poet’s riddles by now.

“I know there are many things you do not understand, young Irion,” the Poet said and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And I promise you, I will answer all of them, when this day is over and we have time to breathe again. But now go and let the flames do their work of destruction, young soldiers. You will find torches on the walls of the Great Hall.”

Battle cries that were closer than they should be forced all of them to turn around. Southrons and Orcs had breached Gondor’s lines in front of the yard of the Great Hall. Enemies started rushing towards the western shore, most of them tried to reach the roads, but some entered the yard of the Great Hall and came running towards the messengers and boys in front of the entrance to the ruin. The Poet raised his sword, and his battle cry echoed in the yard: “Gondor!”

Beldil tried to grasp the hilt of the sword and raise it in defence, but his arm did not obey his commands. He saw Anakil reach for his short sword as well. The boy’s arm was trembling. Irion stepped backwards. The taller boy was armed with only a small knife, and his eyes were wide with fear.

Gondor’s lines battled to close the breach. Soldiers poured arrows into the approaching forces of the enemy. Beldil could hear Captain Boromir’s voice, but he could not understand the words. He could only make out the orders from the Lieutenants: “Close the lines! Close the lines! Archers fire as one! Close the lines!”

Suddenly there was the sound of heavy hooves on stone. From behind the Great Hall, riders appeared, bound for the bloody breach. They were followed by a large group of men, armed with swords or bows. There were only about a dozen mounted men, and they were struggling to control their mostly bare backed horses, but there were enough of them to bring momentary confusion to the enemy. The Orcs approaching the Great Hall hesitated, seeing these new opponent. Those enemies that had entered the breach were trampled down by the horses, for they carried no spears to stop the beasts.

“To the ruins!” Beldil heard voices from the attacking company of Gondor call, and even though he did not know what the group of men had in mind, he understood that they intended to use the breach for their own purpose.

Three of the horsemen were down, but the remaining beasts raced past the thin line of the enemy and reached the ruins on the eastern side of the road in front of the Great Hall. The riders turned around to assault the enemy again, and in the confusion they caused Beldil watched many men slip through the enemy’s scattered line and enter the darkness of the ruins. More horses went down, throwing their riders into quick death by the enemy’s swords, but those that remained mounted or were thrown to land on their feet continued fighting. The men of the lines managed to close the defence again. Those of the enemy on the roads and in the yard of the Great Hall were trapped.

“Gondor!” the Poet shouted again. He was the only warrior in the yard able to fight. There were five enemies coming towards him, three Southrons and two terrible Orcs.

“Irion! Anakil! Go! Now!“ The Poet shouted. „Beldil! Hide!“

Anakil sheathed his sword and turned towards the entrance of the Great Hall again. Irion hesitated. He caught one last glimpse of the Poet’s raised sword and the approaching enemy.

“Irion, go!” Beldil shouted. He did not want to hide, but he knew he did not have a choice.

“Irion! Come on, idiot!” Anakil cried from inside the structure.

Irion finally turned around, and therefore he did not see the arrow coming towards him. The orcish arrow embedded itself in the boy’s back between his shoulder blades. Irion stumbled forward, crying out in pain and gasping for breath. Beldil dropped his sword and caught the falling body before it hit the ground. The boy was heavy, and the messenger felt his left wrist break again under the strain. He stifled a cry of pain and lowered Irion’s body to the ground.

The sound of steel meeting steel told him that the first enemies had reached the Poet and engaged him in battle. Anakil came back from the darkness of the Great Hall to see who had cried out. His eyes widened in terror when he saw Irion lying on his side on the ground, the arrow protruding from his back, blood coming out of his mouth and nose, his breath laboured and weak. “Irion!” he whispered and moved to kneel down.

“Anakil, go!” Beldil kicked at the boy with his dirty boot. “Just go! You cannot help him!” The messenger did not know what task the Poet had given to the boys, but in this desperate hour every task was important. “GO!”

Anakil avoided the kicking boot, grasped the wall of the corridor for balance and disappeared in the darkness of the ruin of the Great Hall.

 

 

There was almost no light at all. There was a lot of noise from the outside, but the men that had reached the collapsed structure behind the enemy’s thin line took great care to be quiet and did not feel the urge to talk. Everyone remembered what the boys had said, kept to the right and tried to make out the opening of the doors in the eastern wall of the ruin. Swords touched fallen stones, boots slipped on moss covered debris, and sometimes there was the sound of a man falling down. They could not light a single torch.

Faramir stayed close to the collapsed western wall and tried to count how many men had made it inside the ruins. The enemy’s breach had been a most welcome opportunity to attack and cross the road in front of the Great Hall without weakening the desperate defences. They had assaulted the breach with almost eighty men, the thin lines could not afford to spare more. In the confusion of the mounted attack the enemy did not realize that Gondor’s warriors had used darkness and surprise to perform an act born of desperation. There was no indication that they were pursued at all.

Maybe fifty had succeeded in reaching the darkness of the ruin. They had known they could not count on the thirteen men on horseback, but to lose fifteen men in the small breach was almost more than Faramir could stomach. They needed every sword and every bow to reach and capture a catapult.

Anborn was the last to enter the ruin. Faramir could make out something dark covering the Ranger’s face, most probably blood. There was no time to ask concerned questions. Anborn motioned him to go on, and the Captain followed his men into the darkness, knowing that Anborn would never allow him to be the one who covered their rear.

The first warriors had already stepped out into the yard of the ruin when a painful cry pierced the silence, followed by shouts of alarm. There was no need for silence any more. Those warriors that still moved inside the dark ruin abandoned all caution and stormed into the open yard through the two narrow openings in the almost intact eastern wall.

The moon and some stars lit the exterior, but thankfully the light was not bright enough to reveal clear targets. Gondor’s soldiers appeared as no more than dark shadows in the darkness of the night. Faramir felt Anborn draw his sword as they passed through one of the doors side by side. The Captain was greeted by an arrow that grazed his upper arm. Warm blood felt sticky on his shirt and mail, but there was not much pain. He did not carry his long bow, and his sword was useless just now.

He could see the dark faces of orcish archers surrounding the yard, pouring arrows into the small company of Gondor. Luckily, darkness and surprise still prevented them from taking exact aim, and most arrows missed their marks. None of the enemy had the courage to enter the yard to engage the men of Gondor in close combat.

Gondor’s archers responded in kind, but they could not eliminate the opposition around them. They could only buy precious time for their comrades to cross the open yard and take cover behind fallen stones of the next ruin.

“Hurry!“ Faramir shouted. „Do not look back!“

Anborn sheathed his useless sword again. „Protect the catapult crews!“ he added. Without the men able to aim a catapult, they did not have the slightest chance of success.

“Archers follow close behind!“ Faramir knew there would not be many archers left to follow. The orcish arrows were anything but accurate, but there were many of them.

Faramir and Anborn stumbled over fallen comrades, archers and swordsmen alike, as they sprinted across the open yard. The boys had been correct, the best path ran in the middle of the yard, but fallen stones and bushes did not provide much cover from the arrows that rained down on them.

The wounded knew no one would stop to take care of them. Some of them managed to crawl back to the ruin from which they had emerged, others tried to reach the fallen tower at the other end of the yard. Most of those that had been hit and were not dead yet stayed where they had fallen, praying that the end would come before the enemy reached them.

Faramir did not count how many men were left standing. He ignored the pain beginning to spread in his left upper arm. He could hear Anborn’s laboured breathing close behind him as they hastened across the yard. The men that had survived the crossfire had already found the way the boys had described. There was the headless statue, and there was something that resembled a path between the debris of the fallen tower, now marked by heavy boots and blood. None of Gondor’s soldiers hesitated to walk the narrow path. All of them knew that now they were discovered, they did not have much time, and speed was their only advantage. As soon as the enemy discovered what they had in mind, the small company would face an overwhelming resistance. They did not check for their Captain, for if he was alive, he would catch up with them, and if he was dead, they had to go on without him.

“Orcs have entered the yard,” Anborn breathed from behind. “They are checking on the injured and the dead. It will not be long before they start pursuit and call for a force to destroy us on the broad path beyond this ruin.”

“They will be too late.” Faramir gritted his teeth. He felt the comforting weight of his sword at his side. The sword that had protected Ithilien for twenty years. The sword that would protect all of Gondor in this darkest of all nights. This sword would not disappoint the brother and friend who trusted him not to fail, the father and Lord he had always loved, the lands that were his home, his past and his future alike.

The path that led around the fallen tower was dark and littered with small stones, but at least it was a path. “Keep to the left!” he shouted, hoping his voice reached those that had passed this way before him. “Do not separate!”

The men cheered at the sound of their Captain’s voice.

Faramir and Anborn emerged from the ruin of the tower. Those men that had survived in fighting condition had formed a circle of defence, their drawn swords gleaming in the light of the few torches burning along the almost deserted broad path that connected the two main roads of the bridge. Only a few Southron couriers hurried along to relay messages between the two parts of the enemy’s army. The sounds of the great battle were audible from both the northern and the southern road. For the first time this night Faramir was grateful for the noise of combat, for it proved that Gondor’s forces were still standing strong.

The three catapults stood in position behind the enemy’s main forces, one on the northern road, two had been dragged over to the south. The northern catapult was maybe a hundred yards away. A company of Orcs protected the great machine while Southrons prepared to fire a shot. The Orcs turned to face the small group of men that had emerged from the ruins to regroup on the broad path.

Faramir heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind. The archers that had discovered them in the yard had finally chosen to take up pursuit. Time was running out fast.

During their struggle to reach this place he had stayed at the rear, now Faramir passed through the ranks of his men to lead the charge that would decide the fate of two armies and the western shore. “For Gondor!” he cried and raised his sword. There was no need for orders. The men knew they had to capture the northern catapult or die trying.


	19. The bridge (continued)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

Inside the ruin of the Great Hall there was an eerie silence. The sounds of battle were almost completely swallowed by the thick walls of the perfectly circular structure. Anakil did not like the silence, for there was no peace and comfort to be found in silence just now. He carried a torch, the only burning torch he had found inside the ruin. The corridor was wide, and the boy was painfully aware that he was alone. The flickering light illuminated holes in the walls where doors had been once.

The Great Hall formed the centre of the partly collapsed structure. Four doors led into this part of the building, facing north, south, east and west. The doors had been forged of iron, and all of them were still there. Anakil tried to open first the eastern, then the southern door. Both doors had not been opened in many years, and the boy was not strong enough to move the rusted iron hinges.

He tried not to think of Irion, but his mind kept straying to the black arrow that now protruded from the other boy’s back. Anakil had worked with the healers often enough to know that it was a dangerous wound. Maybe, if they could find a healer and a stretcher fast, Irion’s life could be saved, but Anakil had not seen a single healer on the bridge. He tried to hold back angry tears and failed.

He was out of breath when he reached the western door of the hall. He pushed against the heavy iron wings with his free arm and was almost startled when the door opened without a sound.

His mother had told him stories of a time when Osgiliath had been the mightiest, most beautiful city in all of Gondor. Standing at the open entrance to the Great Hall, it was easy to imagine the glory and proud dignity of Gondor’s past. The dome of the Hall had collapsed a long time ago, and the moon and stars lit the circular room, bathing it in a soft glow. The centre of the room was buried under a large pile of debris, higher than two men, while in other parts there wasn’t a single fragment of stone on the floor. The sounds of battle were clearly audible through the open roof, reminding Anakil that he had not come here to be lost in memories of the past.

Two large tents had been set up amidst the rubble. Neither were marked, but Anakil knew one was the personal tent of Captain Boromir, while the other housed the council chamber of Osgiliath. He had come here to destroy both.

He strode over to the tent to his left and cast aside the tent flap. His torch lit a sparsely furnished interior. There was a small wooden table with two chairs. A pitcher of water and a wooden cup had been placed on the table next to some maps, letters, papers, a seal, a sheathed dagger and a vial of ink. At the rear of the tent were a cot, a mattress on the floor next to the cot and a comfortable chair covered with clothing and armour. Otherwise the tent was empty.

Anakil had expected something different from the personal tent of Gondor’s Captain General. Something exciting, something that proved that a hero called this place his home in the field. Something that distinguished the place immediately from all the other tents in Osgiliath. There was nothing personal there. Nothing that hinted at the man behind the title, nothing the Captain General would miss after this day.

Reluctantly Anakil entered the tent. He circled the small table, kicked at the mattress on the floor, and took a look at the papers and letters. Most were in the handwriting of the Captain, a handwriting the Poet had taught him to recognize on first sight. He had come here to ensure no confidential letter or map would fall into the hands of the enemy, therefore he did not touch a single piece of paper. But he took the seal of the Captain General and stuffed in into the pocket of his breeches. Slowly he picked up the small dagger and unsheathed it. The weapon was finely crafted, the polished blade glistened in the light of the torch. Anakil strapped the weapon to his belt. Maybe they could use the weapon to cut out the arrow from Irion’s back. Maybe the Captain would be glad to see his seal and dagger again when this night was over.

The sounds of battle reminded him why he had come to this place most boys never saw. He touched the torch to the table and waited until the wood caught fire. Then he quickly left the tent, setting the flap on fire as he went. The dry cloth took only seconds to be engulfed in flames.

Dark smoke made him cough. Dried tears clung to his dirty face. He hastened to the second tent that had to be the council tent of Osgiliath. Despite his curiosity, the boy decided that he had wasted enough time on the first tent. He set this tent on fire as well and waited until he was sure the fire would not burn out before there was nothing left to consume.

The council of Osgiliath would never again discuss matters of the garrison in the Great Hall. The Captain General would never return to his personal quarters.

Black smoke rose through the collapsed dome of the Great Hall, announcing that, even though the army was still standing strong, the bridge of Osgiliath was lost.

Anakil left the Great Hall without looking back.

 

 

One line had dissolved into a mass of blood, screams, gore, pain and death. Only a few warriors that had fought in the first line of defence were left standing. The path in front of the Great Hall where the two armies battled for control of the bridge was covered with bodies. The screams were deafening. The assaulting Orcs and Southrons had to climb over piles of fallen warriors, their own and men of Gondor alike, to reach Gondor’s desperate defence. Archers pulled arrows out of dead bodies to fill up their spent supplies. Some that lost their footing in the chaos fell upon swords and daggers lying on the ground and stabbed themselves. For every scream that was silenced by death two new ones joined the gruesome chorus. But despite their losses Gondor stood firm.

Boromir had fought many battles, but none could be compared to this last stand on the narrow bridge. Their minds had been touched by a dark shadow. Many of them would not see bright sunlight end this darkest of all nights. Never had he seen such courage, never had he been prouder of every single man that had chosen to stay and fight in the aftermath of the dark terror.

His sword was bloody, his gloves were sticky with grime, every single muscle in his body ached. His long sword was no longer a simple weapon; it was an extension of his arm, an instrument of fury and desperation. Most of those that had fought by his side lay at his feet now, he could hear some of them crying for wives and children they would not see again. He would do anything to spare his men the pain, but he did not possess this power. He could only wield his sword, cut through flesh, bring pain and death to the dark creatures that chose to approach him. His face was soiled with blood and grime, the blood of Gondor and the blood of the darkness.

He knew this night would be the longest of his life. He did not shout words of encouragement to his men any more. He preferred to fight in silence, and for the first time, he did not act against those instincts. There were no words left.

In his dance with death, he moved northwards. The stony parapet of the bridge was to his left, he could touch it with the tip of his sword. Orcs climbed the parapet and threw daggers into the fighting crowd. Men of Gondor hacked at the creatures’ exposed ankles with their swords, but it did not matter how many they pushed into the cold waters of the Anduin. Reinforcements of the enemy quickly filled the gaps in the attack. Some enemies passed the Captain General, were killed by those warriors behind him.

The catapults were in position. He could see one large machine behind the lines on the northern road, the other two had been dragged to the south. Southron engineers were preparing to fire. They would kill many of their own soldiers with their burning shots, but they had never before hesitated to kill their own warriors if it served their purpose. Those catapults would bring quick defeat to the desperate lines of Gondor. Boromir was sure every man, Southron and Orc on this bridge was aware of this, and he valued his men even more for their courage to stand strong in the clear knowledge of defeat.

He could not see much, but there was some movement behind the enemy’s line. He prayed that Faramir and his group of men had found passage through the ruins to fight for a catapult. He could smell the dark smoke rising out of the collapsed dome of the Great Hall. All important papers of the council were destroyed; the enemy would capture nothing of strategic value in Osgiliath’s headquarters.

A cut above his eyes started bleeding. He did not remember whose sword or dagger had touched him. Pain was not important. He wiped the blood out of his eyes with his dirty glove. More enemies perished at his feet. The warrior next to him dropped to his knees, his left arm severed from his body. Boromir killed the Southron who had wielded the fatal blow, but there was nothing more he could do for the man. The soldier of Osgiliath would bleed to his death on the stones of the northern road.

“The eagle is on his way to destroy the foundations of old,” a deep voice called to him, and a sword descended from above, splitting the skull of a Southron. The Poet had climbed the parapet, and his great blade never missed. “I have sent the bear’s cub into the bear’s cave.”

“Do you ever stop spouting poetry and riddles, Poet?” Boromir breathed, surprised to have found calm words immediately.

“As long as I am able to draw breath, I will enrich the air with the sound of words, my lord. For words are never wasted, and beautiful words will be remembered when all other things have vanished from memory.”

Boromir smiled a grim smile. “We will remember the beauty of your sword as well.”

The Poet chuckled. For the first time, his sword missed. He had put great force behind what would have been a killing blow, but the great blade did not meet a target. His body followed the movement of his arms, and he had to step sideways to keep his balance. Two Orcs used this short advantage to slash at his feet with their long daggers. The Poet managed to avoid the thrusts, but he moved too quickly and without looking down. One of his boots tripped on the edge of the parapet. His tall body swayed back and forth, out of balance. An orcish dagger reached his thigh, drawing blood. He did not scream when he disappeared in the waters of Anduin far below.

“Poet!” a voice shouted from somewhere behind. “Poet! Poet!”

Boromir remembered that he had never found out the Poet’s name. Now the Poet was gone, only a memory of poetry and riddles. The Captain wanted to howl in anger, but he knew his enemies would use every single moment of distraction to overpower him. He was one of only about one hundred swordsmen still standing on the northern road.

The northern catapult spouted fire. A burning shot sailed through the clear, dark sky, beautiful to behold despite the destruction it was about to cause. The Southrons and Orcs of the first lines shouted in triumph.

Boromir cursed. “Incoming!” he shouted. “Incoming!”

“Incoming!” The shout was repeated throughout the thin lines.

Some of the men froze in shock, raising their eyes to the sky to stare at the fiery shot coming towards them. Most of them were killed in this short moment of distraction.

Boromir did not care where the shot would cut a hole into their defences. He was determined to die fighting and take with him as many enemies as possible. His arms were numb, but his mind did not allow his weary body to stop moving.

Suddenly there was a cheer. The battered lines of Gondor broke into a deafening howl of triumph. “Faramir!” they shouted. “Faramir!”

For a second Boromir turned his head, his sword still moving in front of him to ward off enemies. The shot had passed high over the lines of Gondor, hitting the tall tower at their back.

“Faramir!” Boromir joined the cheer. Tears welled up in his eyes. He felt a sudden urge to hug and kiss his brother. “Faramir!” he shouted, his hoarse voice louder than the noises of battle.

 

 

Irion was dead. Anakil knew his fellow boy had left this world the moment the flickering light of the torch illuminated the body on the floor. Irion’s face was relaxed, there was no more pain and agony. Blood had stopped coming from his mouth, and his eyes were closed forever. The arrow was no longer lodged in his back, someone had pulled it out and tossed it aside.

Anakil knelt down next to his comrade and touched a cold hand with his fingertip. He felt tears blur his vision and angrily wiped away the moisture with his dirty sleeve. “I’m sorry, Irion,” he sobbed. “I didn’t mean it when I called you an idiot.”

There was no reply. Irion’s deep voice would never again call him a coward.

“Get out of there, fool of a troublemaker!”

Anakil dropped the torch in surprise and quickly snatched it up again before Irion’s clothes could catch fire. “Beldil!” he gasped and rose to his feet. “The Poet?”

“The Poet is all right. It takes more than a few Orcs to kill someone like him. Come on, we have to get out of here. The defence will not hold much longer.”

Anakil did not move. He looked down at Irion’s body. “We cannot leave him here,” he said. “We have to take him to the western shore to give him a proper burial.”

Beldil shook his head. “We cannot and will not take him with us. He will not be the only one we have to leave behind.”

“But…!”

“Believe me, he would understand.” Beldil shot the boy a meaningful glance and left the corridor of the Great Hall.

Anakil cast a last look on Irion’s now peaceful face. “I’m sorry!” he whispered and followed his older friend into the open yard.

Close to the entrance to the Great Hall lay the dead bodies of three Southrons and two Orcs. The Poet was nowhere to be seen. The noise of battle was almost unbearable, but Anakil did not have to concentrate any more on ignoring them. A few hours ago the sound and smell had disgusted him, had almost made him sick, now he was able to block out everything; sound, smell, fear, pity, grief. He had seen so many men die, he had felt terrible shadows, his mind no longer took in the terror around him. Of course he understood that everything had changed for the worst, that Gondor was losing the battle, that many had died and would die in the last minutes of the desperate defence, but he did not care any more. He did not care whether the battle lasted forever, whether there would be a morning at all. He was just there, without emotion, his mind blank.

Beldil hastened across the yard and made his way to the northern road. He still dragged the heavy sword behind him, the tip shrieking on the stones of the roads. Anakil followed his friend, the torch from the Great Hall still clasped in his right hand.

Irion was dead. Boys died in battles. The thought slowly made its way into his conscious mind. In all those stories about battle nobody had ever spoken of the dead boys. They told heroic tales about fallen warriors, about desperate fights against an overwhelming enemy, about treacherous arrows and bad luck, but there were no tales about the dead boys. How could it be that the warriors lived on in tales and songs, and the boys were forgotten? Just because they did not fight didn’t mean they lacked courage, didn’t mean they did not stand strong for Gondor. “I will remember the boys!” he whispered. “And the messengers. And the cooks and healers.”

Beldil limped behind the fighting lines to the northern road, but suddenly he stopped. “Valar!” he shouted.

Anakil followed his gaze and saw the Poet standing on the parapet, battling Orcs and Southrons that tried to assault the Captain General on the road. The parapet was narrow, and the tall messenger moved his feet only an inch at a time so as not to lose his footing on the stones. The line of defence on the northern road had become thin, sometimes one of the enemy succeeded in slipping past Gondor’s warriors to attack from behind. A great catapult was in position behind the enemy’s lines; it would soon be ready to fire.

“What is he doing?” Anakil shouted.

“Protecting what is already lost!” Beldil replied.

Three Southrons slipped past the Captain General to attack from behind. Two of them fell victim to the Poet’s great blade, the third was out of his reach.

Anakil had never been this close to battle before. Fifteen feet away the warriors of Gondor fought to buy some time for Captain Faramir; ten feet away, at their backs, there was a Southron that would attack them from behind, kill them. Anakil did not know how to fight. He only knew that somehow he had to stop that Southron.

The boy tossed away the torch and drew his short sword. He stepped forward to stand in front of Beldil. The Southron that had ignored the small boy and the messenger before saw the movement from the corner of his eyes and turned around to identify the possible threat. A grim smile appeared on his gruesome painted face.

Anakil clenched both fists around the hilt of his sword to keep his arms from trembling. Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid. – Being a really lucky little bastard. Maybe he had been wrong about that, maybe he wasn’t a lucky little bastard after all.

“Anakil!” he heard Beldil hiss from behind. “We have to run!”

Anakil shook his head. Irion had tried to run from the Orcs, and now he was dead. He did not want to die. He would not make the same mistake and turn his back to danger.

The Southron’s smile widened, and he slowly stepped closer. Anakil’s sword did tremble now, but he did not step back. “You have courage, little one,” the Southron hissed in the common tongue. His accent was hard and ugly, and Anakil winced. “But courage is not enough today.”

“Don’t call me little one!” the boy shouted. This was worse than the dreams of death at the Black Gate. This was reality.

The Southron raised his sword and attacked. Anakil moved to block the blow. Steel met steel, and the sword was almost knocked from the boy’s hands. His wrists ached from the powerful impact. The Southron was fast, he did not need any time to recover. Anakil’s sword was still down. The boy knew he was dead. The great Southron blade moved to sever his head from his body. Anborn’s and Beldil’s advice from the training ground was forgotten. Nothing mattered in this moment between life and death. There was only the blade that would end his life if he did not find a way to defeat it. Anakil let himself drop to his knees, swinging his sword in a circle above his head to stop the enemy’s blade. His sword was knocked from his hands. He was utterly defeated. He had lost his weapon, and he was on his knees. The boy closed his eyes and waited for the agonizing pain that would precede death.

Pain did not come.

He slowly opened his eyes again to see the Southron lying on the ground in a fast growing pool of blood, Beldil’s sword piercing his throat. The boy jumped to his feet and turned around. Beldil was on his knees, clutching his broken wrist with his right hand; his breath was coming in laboured gasps. “Never go down on your knees in real battle!” he breathed. “Do you never listen to what people tell you?”

Anakil smiled and put a hand on Beldil’s shoulder. “Thank you!” he said. Still smiling, he helped his friend to his feet. Then his smile disappeared.

The Poet on the parapet had missed one of his opponents, and one of his feet tripped on the edge of the parapet. His tall body swayed back and forth, out of balance. Orcs reached him with their daggers, drawing blood. The messenger did not scream as he disappeared to fall into the waters of Anduin far below.

“Poet!” Anakil shouted. The boy let go of Beldil and rushed to the parapet. The water below the bridge was dark, but he could make out the grey head of the old messenger appearing and disappearing from sight. “Poet! Poet!”

Beldil limped to his side and peered over the parapet as well. “He will be all right.”

Anakil shook his head. “Look! He is struggling! He can’t swim!” He bent down to pull off his boots.

“No!” Beldil grabbed his arm and forced him to look up. “Anakil. Listen to me. We are at war. We cannot escape death, we can only try to avoid it. If you try to help him, you do not avoid death, you invite it!”

“No.” Anakil shook his head and bent down to his boots again. “He cannot swim, Beldil. He will drown!” Anakil knew the river well. The Anduin was broad and slow flowing at Osgiliath, but the current was still strong enough to overpower those unaccustomed to moving in flowing water.

Beldil pulled him up again. “You have to accept that death is part of life. You saved me once.  
You cannot save everyone!”

Anakil remembered Lieutenant Darin’s words: YOU NEVER EVER LEAVE A COMRADE! “I have to help him! Let me go!” The boy pulled away from Beldil’s weak grasp and climbed the parapet. He could see the dark water far below. The grey head was still there, struggling for life. “See you on the western shore, Beldil!” He put both hands to his face to cover his nose and eyes and jumped feet first into the darkness below.

“Fool of a troublemaker!” he heard Beldil’s angry shout, then the cold, wet darkness enveloped him.

 

 

“Hurry!” Faramir shouted.

The advantage of surprise and desperation had cleared them a bloody path to the northern catapult. For the first time this night, luck smiled at them. The catapult was loaded and ready to fire when they finally managed to gain control. The engineers immediately changed the aim, while those that were able to stand upright and wield a blade struggled to ward off the onslaught of enemies that tried to recapture the mighty weapon.

Faramir could feel Anborn at his back, repelling every Southron that had realized one of Gondor’s Captains was leading this manoeuvre and was eager to bring him down. No more than twenty-five were left of the eighty men that had set out to destroy the bridge, and those few would not be able to hold their ground very long.

“Prepare to fire!” one of the engineers cried. A second later he gave the long awaited command: “Fire!”

The catapult crew jumped down from where they had climbed the weapon to change aim. The wooden construction moved, forward, then backward, releasing its burning ammunition into the air. The shout of triumph from the party of Gondor was drowned in the cheer from the fighting lines.

“Hold your ground!” Faramir shouted. There was no way they could fire a second shot. They did not have the men necessary to load the catapult and protect it at the same time. One shot had to be sufficient. Otherwise, everything was lost.

The engineers had aimed well, the shot hit the tower at its base.

Nothing happened.

Faramir realized he was holding his breath. He forced himself to draw some air into his lungs. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the tower started to sway, back and forth. Large stones erupted from its top floor. The lower third of the structure finally collapsed under the strain. The tower disintegrated; stone blocks flew out on all sides. Larger pieces hit the arch of the bridge, stirring dust and ash. The sound of stone shattering stone drowned even the sounds of battle. The armies continued fighting, obscured by flying rock dust and darkness.

The ground shook. The whole arch of the bridge seemed to tremble. Faramir understood immediately. He did not know whether the foundations of the bridge had grown weak with old age or whether the collapsing tower had been a fatal blow to the entire structure, he only knew that the whole segment of the bridge between the third and forth pier was breaking into pieces under their feet. “Into the water!” he shouted. “Fight your way to the parapet, jump into the water! The bridge is coming down!” The bridge would be beyond repair in a few moments, the only path into the heart of Gondor would be closed.

The men did not need further encouragement. They abandoned the catapult and fought to find a way to reach the water below. Only Anborn stayed at his Captain’s side. The Ranger’s face was covered in blood that was mostly his own.

The enemy was confused. Those able to understand what was happening cast themselves into the water or started to retreat towards the eastern shore. Faramir used the momentary confusion to risk a glance towards Gondor’s army. The warriors were not holding the line in front of the Great Hall any more. Most of them were running to the southern road, hopefully able to jump into the water before the width of the bridge finally came down.

It started in the southwest, where the tall tower had been. The Great Hall slowly collapsed and disappeared from sight. The ruins they had used to get behind the enemy’s lines fell into the abyss that was slowly opening up between the two piers. Only a part of the northern road remained standing. The collapse that had started slowly picked up speed, one falling section of the bridge knocked loose the next, a deadly avalanche of stones and dust. Faramir knew he would never make it to the southern parapet in time.

Orcs and Southrons saw the Great Hall and a part of the bridge disappear in the dark water below. All order was gone. Swords and shields were tossed aside.

The bridge was lost.

The battle was over.

“Captain!” Faramir felt Anborn’s hand on his arm. “It is over!”

Faramir did not resist as his Ranger pulled him to the remains of the northern parapet. The southern parapet behind them was already gone. They did not have to use their swords to clear the way. The enemy no longer cared about those men that had brought destruction to them all. Most tried to move to the east, afraid of the water or unable to swim. In their panic many went down to be trampled by their comrades.

The stones of the parapet trembled. Anborn climbed the collapsing structure and turned around to aid his Captain. “Jump!” Faramir pushed against the Ranger’s legs. Anborn lost his balance and dropped head first into the waiting darkness.

“Still alive, brother?”

Faramir heard his brother’s voice above the chaos of two armies in flight. He turned his head and saw Boromir climb the northern parapet less than two hundred yards away.

“Still alive!” he shouted back.

Their eyes met, and they understood each other. The brothers exchanged last smiles, then they jumped into the cold water below.

All that was left of the middle segment of the bridge collapsed in their wake.

 

 

 

 

 


	20. The survivors Part 1 - The river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

XIX

The water enveloped him, cool and soft, and he squeezed his eyes shut to relish the sudden silence.

For a long time now water had been one of the constants in his life. He had always loved to feel water caress his body, always, except on this sunny afternoon when all of them had come to witness his great day.

His father was normally a stern and proud man, but on this day a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he had his arm draped about the shoulders of the woman next to him. His mother, gentle and loving, her eyes sparkling with merriment and laughter. His three sisters, barefoot, their skirts lifted quite high in the futile attempt to not wet the cloth in the shallow water of the Anduin while they chased each other in circles. His two brothers, clad only in thin breeches, their short hair dripping wet from diving and swimming in the river.

And there he was, three years old and a little frightened, his bare left foot carefully testing the cold water. As always, he was clad only in short breeches, and the sun had tanned his small and thin body.

“Come on, ‘Kil!” his brother shouted. “We know you can do it! You have practiced so hard! Come on!”

“It is cold!” he said.

“It is as cold as yesterday, and you did not hesitate yesterday.”

Yesterday there had been no witnesses. Yesterday there had only been his brothers and the horses in the field present to watch him.

“He is afraid!” his youngest sister teased him. “Little boy is afraid of the water!”

“I am not!” he protested. He stepped forward until the water reached his knees.

“That’s my boy!” his mother encouraged him. “Take your time, Anakil.”

“He will never make it!” his sister teased. “Maybe we should come back next year.”

“Show her how wrong she is!” his brother challenged. “Show her that you can swim and dive like a little fish.”

“I am better than a little fish. I am a big fish.” He squeezed his eyes shut and stepped into the water until it reached his hips. “I am a big fish. I am a big fish. I am a big fish!“

He heard his father’s deep chuckle from behind. His sisters laughed in delight, but they did not tease him any more. Suddenly strong hands grasped him at the waist and lifted him high into the air. “Come on, big fish!” His eyes shot open, and he caught glimpses of the laughing face of his oldest brother. “Swim, big fish! I know you can do it. Show us that you can swim!”

“’Rion!” he squealed in protest, but his brother just laughed and tossed him into the river. He felt the cold water envelop him and squeezed his eyes shut again. He instinctivly held his breath and moved his arms and legs in the way his brothers had taught him. He felt the water part for him, felt that he was moving, and he had to suppress a shout of triumph. He was swimming and diving like a big fish, without any help, under the proud gaze of his parents and siblings. He was Anakil of the Anduin, and he would never again be afraid of the water.

His lungs started to demand fresh air, and reluctantly he opened his eyes.

Everything was dark.

Heavy clothing tried to pull him down. There was no ground beneath his feet. There were no laughing sisters and protective brothers.

His head broke the surface. The air smelled of water, blood and battle. “’Rion! ‘Gor!” he whispered. His brothers were not there to lift him out of the water. He didn’t even know whether they were still alive.

He was no small boy pretending to be a big fish. He was forced to face reality, the reality of war, the reality of being in the middle of the Anduin, alone, beneath a doomed bridge, looking for a friend who was about to drown.

“Poet!” Anakil shouted, kicking water to stay afloat and desperately trying to pierce the darkness with his gaze. “Poet! Poet!“

The current of the river swept him southwards, and he knew enough not to waste his strength by trying to fight against it. All he could do was move in diagonal lines to the southwest or southeast. He could hear the sounds of fighting from far above, the shouting and crying of human and other voices. He could see dark shapes sail through the air, sometimes silent, sometimes shouting in fury, vanishing in the black waves. He desperately hoped that Orcs and Southrons were not able to swim long in their heavy gear. It was dark; he would never see such a creature approaching him in time.

“Poet!” he shouted again. “Poet!”

He could not avoid being carried under the arch of the bridge. Whatever light the moon and the stars had provided before was blocked by the mighty construction looming above. Every sound seemed enhanced, and Anakil trembled slightly.

“Poet!” the boy shouted, and in his imagination his voice echoed in the complete darkness.

There was noise ahead of him, somewhere to his right, and despite his fear his bare feet started propelling him forwards. He kept both arms outstretched to feel obstacles before touching them with his head or body.

“Poet!” He wanted his voice to sound strong and confident, but he did not succeed. Maybe Beldil had been right, maybe it had been a bad idea to just jump into the water. Sometimes, he reckoned, he should think more before plunging headfirst into the unknown.

His outstretched hands touched something warm and soft, something that immediately clung to him with an iron grip as soon as it felt the solid flesh. The boy felt two strong hands encircle first his hands, then his wrists, then his upper arms. A great weight, desperately moving, kicking and clutching at him, pushed him down. He could hear fast, panicked breathing nearby. He tried to remove the clutching hands, tried to kick out at whoever held him in his grip, tried to get away, but he knew he could not match the other’s strength. He held his breath as his head was pushed below the waterline, his eyes open but unable to see anything in the complete darkness.

He had dealt with drowning men before. He knew a man about to lose his fight against deep water would, in his desperation, panic and kill the one trying to help him.

He did not try to resurface and get rid of the arms and hands that encircled his shoulders and torso but turned his body to dive deeper, pulling the assaulting weight down with him. His legs kicked furiously to submerge the attacker, hopefully forcing him to release him and continue the fight for life at the surface.

His lungs started to ache with need of air, but he continued kicking, and finally he was released. He swam away and resurfaced a few feet away, greedily sucking in air. “Poet!” he shouted. “Poet, don’t fight. I cannot help you if you fight me.”

They were still below the bridge, but in the distance he could see a grey spot in the darkness. Soon they would be in the open again, being swept southwards towards the sea. He could hear the struggling body next to him, searching for him. Long hair touched his hands. He tugged at the strands, provoking a sound of pain and protest. He tugged again, pulling the man’s head towards him and slinging his right arm around the man’s neck from behind, applying some pressure.

“Don’t fight!” Anakil shouted, turning on his back and bringing the squirming body in his grasp along with him, pressing the head below his chin and the struggling torso to his chest. His legs were kicking madly to avoid being submerged in the water, even for only a second. He needed to convince the panicking man that he would not let him drown. The man was heavy, chainmail was dragging him down. “Don’t fight! The water and I will carry you. Breathe! Breathe! Try to breathe normally! I will not let you go!”

The body in his grasp trembled with coughing, and Anakil lessened his pressure on the man’s throat to give him the opportunity to suck in fresh air. The struggling ceased, the body went limp, to be carried in part by the flowing water, in part by the small boy.

“Poet?” Anakil asked tentatively.

“Well met. Well met indeed, my young apprentice,” the Poet said, his voice hoarse from coughing. “I will not ask what you are doing in this dark and wet place, for I am more than grateful for your being here in this moment of time.”

Something big and heavy plunged into the water, bathing the boy and the man in a spray of heavy droplets. They could hear more splashes break the water’s surface, even though they did not feel the impact.

Anakil understood first. “The bridge! The bridge is coming down!”

“Captain Faramir has succeeded in his difficult task,” the Poet added matter of factly. “I bow my head to his valour!”

“We have to get out of here!” Anakil started moving his legs, propelling them forwards with the current of the river. “The bridge will bury us alive! Kick your legs, Poet, just kick as if your life depends on it, because it does!”

 

The water was cold, but not freezing, he had no difficulty breathing after the shock of the impact had subsided. His boots and chainmail were dragging him down, and he had to kick his legs furiously to stay afloat. He had only one arm and hand available to fight against the current, for his right hand still clutched the hilt of his sword. This sword had been made for him when he had been no more than a mere boy, and it had protected Ithilien and Gondor for more than twenty years now. He was not ready to part with the weapon that had been his companion for so long.

The bridge was breaking apart above and behind him. The sound of stone crushing stone was deafening. Heavy fragments hit the water, some pieces missing his struggling body by no more than a few feet. He could hear the shouts of the swimming and dying around him, even though he did not see their heads or bodies in the dark water and white foam. There were too many shadows to be able to make out the details of his surroundings, and droplets of waters blurred his vision, entered his nose, driving tears into his eyes, trickled past his teeth whenever he opened his mouth to draw breath.

He managed to manoeuvre his sword closer to his body. His legs and one arm fought against the river trying to drag him closer to where the bridge rained death into the cold water. His brother had taught him to swim when he had been a small child, and he desperately hoped that the brothers or fathers of Osgiliath’s and Ithilien’s soldiers had taught them as well.

“Swim to the western shore!” he shouted into the damp shadows, his voice horse and interrupted with coughing. There was no reply. He was barely able to hear his own words in the chaos of the collapsing bridge.

The tip of his sword touched something hard at his side, and he realized it had by chance found the sheath at his belt. He sheathed the weapon and used both arms to move towards the west. A stone fragment hit his booted foot, and he cried out in pain and surprise. The cold water soothed and cleaned the many small wounds he had sustained in battle, he could only feel stinging pain in his left upper arm where an arrow had grazed him on the way to the enemy’s catapult. The foot where the stone had touched him started going numb, he was sure he was in for a bad limb when he reached the shore.

He blinked water out of his eyes, tried to blow his nose and shook his head to clear his senses. In the pale light of the moon and the stars he could suddenly make out a head in the water ahead of him, a human head, but whether it was a man of Gondor or a Southron warrior, he was unable to tell. “Friend or foe?” he shouted a challenge, his right hand searching for the knife he had thrown at an enemy at some point during the battle.

The struggling man was close enough to hear the challenge, and the head turned around, eyes looking around for the origin of the voice. Faramir could make out a pale face beneath dark hair, eyes white with fear and struggle to stay afloat.

“Captain?” the soldier coughed, recognizing his commander in the darkness. He opened his mouth to utter some more words, a greeting perhaps, a warning, an expression of relief to see one of the Captains alive, but the words never left his lips. A block of stone appeared from above, hitting his head, and without uttering a last shout the man disappeared under the waterline, his skull smashed to pieces by the heavy missile.

Faramir stared in shock at the place the man had been but a second before. He had to shake his head again to get his actions under control once more, then he continued battling the current of the Anduin on his way to the western shore.

 

“It’s over!” Anakil coughed, out of breath. The noise had finally subsided, the middle segment of the bridge had found its resting place on the bed of the Anduin. “I can’t believe we are still alive!”

“We are still drawing breath, both of us,” the Poet confirmed. “I bow my head to your courage and your ability to move in flowing water, my young apprentice of the Anduin.”

Anakil shifted the Poet’s body he was supporting to gain a more comfortable position in the water. Now that the chaos of the collapsing bridge had given way to an almost eerie silence, the boy started to feel the weight of the tall man draining the strength from his body. “I am afraid I cannot support you much longer,” he stated. “But we are close to the riverbank.”

They were close enough to see the shore nearby, darker than the darkness of the water, no more than 300 yards away. The current was carrying them towards this much welcome darkness now, the boy did not have to kick his legs any more, just move his feet slowly to stay afloat. Anakil coughed and took a few hard breaths before he was able to continue speaking. “When I was a very young child father taught me that whenever I grew tired or got lost in the water, all I had to do was keep my head above the waterline and move … to my … right…” He trailed off, his voice suddenly no more than a whisper. “Valar!” How could he have made such a terrible mistake? He did not welcome the thought of feeling solid ground under his boots any more. He trembled with cold and barely suppressed panic. “We moved to our right,” he whispered. „I moved us to our right… Poet, I’m so sorry! … we were on our backs and moved to our right! This is the eastern shore!“

The boy started kicking his legs furiously, trying to turn the two of them away from the looming shore and towards the west. His breath was coming in laboured gasps, and there was not much energy left in his limbs, but he gritted his teeth and tightened his hold on the body he was supporting.

“No!” The Poet slowly shook his head. “Do not waste your strength. We will never reach the western shore together,” he said matter of factly. “Do not blame yourself for the course you chose for us, my young apprentice, for you brought us out of immediate danger safely.”

“I brought us to the eastern shore!” the boy panted, not willing to give up his fight against the waters of the Anduin yet. “Poet, we lost the eastern shore! The enemy will be everywhere by now! I do not even have my sword to fight for my life!”

“I lost my weapon to the water as well,” the Poet stated. He tried to still the boy’s kicking legs with his hand, but Anakil was too angry and frightened to give up his desperate fight.

“Do you trust me, Anakil?”

The question was unexpected, and it made the boy stop his efforts for a moment to consider it.  
“Yes, I do,” he finally answered.

“Then show me now. I put my life in your hands, and you bore me away from the bridge to the safety of a shore. You have carried me long enough. You have done your part to ensure our survival, my young apprentice. You are tired and weary, and the river is wide and cold. Neither of us will survive, should we try to cross the Anduin in our present condition. There are other ways. It is time now for me to ensure our survival. Just trust me, Anakil of the Anduin. Take us to the nearest shore and listen to my every word, however irrational it may seem to you at this particular moment in time.”

Anakil’s legs were heavy, just keeping them both above the surface was an effort and draining the remaining strength from his body. The Poet was right. They would never reach the western shore alive. In his present condition, he doubted that he would be able to swim the distance without the burden of another body. “I trust you,” he said. He did not have a choice.

He turned their bodies around, and the river carried them back to the east, to a shore that was no longer safe. “Maybe there are others who have made it to the wrong shore as well,” he guessed. “Maybe we can join forces with them and fight our way home.”

The Poet smiled in the darkness. “Remember what I taught you, my young apprentice,” he chided gently. “You have heard much about the ways of messengers, and still you think like someone who wants to be a warrior.

Remember, messengers are different.

A messenger is prepared to be alone behind the enemy’s line, and he knows how to survive. Always remember that sometimes, the power of words is far greater than the power of the sword.”

 

Gondor’s Captain General had swum across the Anduin before, but never at night, never in full gear, never with countless small and large injuries on his body and never after an exhausting battle. The water was cold, and the temperature began to affect his constitution. It was in the middle of summer, the water never got any warmer than it was now, but he had never been forced to endure the chill for such a long time. He felt the strength leave his limbs, felt his body heat disappear, sucked out of him by coldness and exhaustion. His lower lip trembled with each laboured breath, there was nothing he could do to suppress it.

His eyes closed with a will of their own, and he forced them to open again, commanded his arms and legs to struggle on, to part the water before him, to propel him towards the western shore. He could hear nothing else except his heavy breathing and the sounds of the water around him. His mind was focused on reaching the shore, on feeling solid ground under his boots again, on moving upriver towards western Osgiliath and inspecting what was left of the garrison and his command. The heart of Gondor was safe, an overwhelming enemy and terrifying shadows had not been able to conquer it, and Gondor’s soldiers deserved to know that their Captain General was safe as well, safe and at their side to continue the ongoing fight.

 

Both of them lay on their stomachs, too exhausted to roll over and rest on their backs. They were breathing heavily, relishing the feeling of dry air in their lungs and solid ground below their limbs. The Poet had one arm draped over the boy, whether for protection or for warmth, Anakil did not care. He was just grateful to feel the tall, gaunt body beside him, to know that he was not alone on enemy soil.

Anakil buried his nose in the mixture of sand, grass and fallen leaves that covered the eastern shore of the Anduin. The earthy, wet scent reminded him of the one night he had spent alone in the wilderness of Ithilien. A light breeze stirred the trees that lined the shore, the waters of Anduin murmured softly. Otherwise an eerie silence hung over the riverbank like a thick blanket, there was not a single animal audible in the undergrowth beneath the trees, no traveller whistling a happy tune, no secret lovers enjoying the loneliness of the night. For what he had known during this first night in Ithilien had never been truer than tonight: The peace of the riverbank was a lie, hidden from at first glace, but obvious to everyone who dared to listen and look closer.

Anakil raised his head to take a look around. The pale moon and a sky full of stars bathed his surroundings in a faint light, too dim to make out many details, there were only shadows.

Suddenly heavy footfalls disturbed the silence, and the shadows of the night seemed to come alive. Loud voices pierced the cool air like a knife. Anakil lowered his head again, successfully stifling a groan that wanted to escape his throat. He recognized the voices, even though he did not understand the language. The moving shadows belonged to Orcs, and they were closing in fast.

The Poet’s arm around his body tightened, and he could feel the older man’s hot breath brush his neck as the messenger whispered in his ear: “Trust me, my young apprentice. Dirty your face with the soil of Ithilien, and when someone seems to address you, answer with a painful groan. Do not look them in the eyes, for they might see fear and the truth in your face, and do not move on your own accord or try to speak.”

“Poet…?” Anakil started to ask.

“I am sorry, we do not have the time for explanations just now, my young apprentice. Trust me, Anakil. Remember my words and trust me.”

Anakil nodded, aware that the Poet could feel the movement and rubbed his face against the soil to dirty his damp face and clothes. He had to concentrate hard to keep himself from sneezing when sand entered his nose, but he did not want to move more than necessary.

The Poet’s reassuring arm disappeared, and he could hear and feel the old messenger sitting up besides him.

The heavy footsteps were very close now, the voices were shouting in a strange language he remembered from the battle, and he forced his head to stay down. His pulse was thundering in his ears, cold sweat started to form on his back, and he knew without doubt that he had never been so scared before. He could hear them, they were close enough so that he could smell them, but he was not allowed to even raise his head and look at them before they did whatever they wanted to do with him.

A deep voice asked a question he did not understand.

Then the Poet spoke, in the same language the Orc had used.

A heavy boot touched the boy’s arm none too gently, and he whimpered and groaned. Two gloved hands turned him on his back, and he groaned again, forcing his eyes to stay closed and not look the Orc that had touched him in the eye.

The deep voice spoke again, angry. He could feel the creature’s hot breath on his face, the Orc must have bent down to examine him. He groaned again, in fear and desperation, and a thin, cool hand touched his wrist.

The Poet spoke again, and this time his tone was stern and commanding.

The orcish voice answered, and the boy fancied hearing something like respect and obedience in the deep growl. The hot breath disappeared, and the Poet’s fingers closed about his right hand, squeezing tightly.

For the first time Anakil really understood the power of words. He had not known that the Poet knew the tongue of the enemy.

The Poet spoke, commanding once more, and the Orc answered. Anakil heard footsteps nearby and tried to count how many of them they had to kill, once the talking was over and the fighting began. He remembered the knife he had taken in the Captain General’s tent before he had burnt it to the ground, he could feel that the weapon was still at his belt. Maybe the Poet also had a weapon concealed somewhere about his person. Maybe they could surprise the enemy during the negotiations the Poet was obviously leading. The boy wondered briefly what the Poet offered those creatures for their life.

The talking did not last long. The Poet let go of his hand, and Anakil could sense the old messenger scramble to his feet beside him. The boy immediately missed the reassuring touch. He did not know what to do. Should he get up shouting and screaming, hurling his knife at the opponent closest to him, or should he stay down and wait for them to attack? He opened one eye for a moment, but there was nobody in his field of vision, just the sky full of stars above him. He groaned softly, in true despair rather than in acted pain.

The Poet spoke to him, in the language he did not understand, and he groaned in response and quickly closed his eye again. Two strong arms lifted him up. He tried to fight against the touch, but no claw like hand tried to crush his windpipe or break his back. His small body was securely nestled against a narrow chest, his head pressed against a bony shoulder. He could smell sweat and damp leather, and he breathed the scent in deeply, glad that it was the Poet who had picked him up instead of one of the stinking Orcs.

“Luck shines on us, that lesser creatures discovered us first. The creatures of darkness lack the ability to see what is clearly before their eyes,” the Poet whispered into his ear. “Two of them will take us to their camp.”

Anakil nodded almost imperceptibly, even though it took him some time to understand what the Poet had told him. The Poet spoke the language of the enemy. They did not carry any weapons, and their clothing did not resemble the livery of Gondor’s soldiers. It was dark, and both of them were wet and dirty. The Poet had convinced the Orcs that the two of them were Southron warriors that had survived the downfall of the bridge. For a moment he had to suppress a chuckle, than he realized that all Orcs looked alike in his human eyes. Maybe all humans looked the same to them.

Southrons were the enemy. Their skin was darker. They answered to the Dark Lord’s call. They belonged to a strange land and culture of middle earth. But despite the differences, the Southrons and the men of Gondor did have something in common: All of them were men.

The Poet pressed the boy firmly to his chest, Anakil could feel the older man’s heartbeat, and he could hear labored breathing close to his head. His wet clothing clung to his body, making him shiver, and he could feel a light trembling in the Poet’s arms around him as well. They had to acquire dry clothes and a warm meal somewhere; otherwise there was a good chance that they would catch a bad cold.

“What do we do now?” he whispered, careful to not move his lips more than absolutely necessary. “There will be Southrons in the camp, they will recognize us as not one of their own.”

The Poet bent his head, planting a kiss on his hair and whispering back: “I fear we cannot enjoy their hospitality for a very long time. We will find a way to remain hidden until we can see a way out of this unpleasant situation.”

One of the Orcs that accompanied them asked a question, and the Poet barked an answer. Then his head bent down to the boy again, and he placed another kiss on Anakil’s wet hair. “They do not like us whispering. I told them you are my son and therefore comforted by my voice, for you are in great pain. I would appreciate it if you supported my story by moaning every now and then.”

Anakil moaned obediently.

They walked in silence for a long time. Being carried like his brother had carried him when he had returned from his adventure in Ithilien was very soothing, and Anakil’s exhausted body jumped at the opportunity to gather some strength. Despite his fear and uncertainty, the boy had to fight against sleep, and it was a fight he could not win.

 

Boromir of Gondor did not waste a single thought on dying. There was no doubt that he would reach the western shore alive, despite the fatigue that spread like fire in his arms and legs, despite the overwhelming urge to close his eyes and give into exhaustion. He had fought many foes and emerged victorious out of countless battles, he would not lose a battle against himself.

He was alone. He did not know how many of his men that had been on the bridge had survived its collapse, how many had met foes in the cold water and had died fighting, how many had made it to the safety of the western shore. He could not hear any shouts of the survivors or of the dying, and the lack of voices worried him. He had been one of the last to abandon the bridge and embrace the river, some of his men must have reached the western shore some time ago. But there were no fires visible, not even flickering torches.

His boots touched solid ground, and he breathed a sigh of relief, for he knew that he would not have been able to continue swimming for very much longer. He struggled to reach the riverbank, one step at a time, his arms parting the waves, until the water came up only to his waist.

He pushed his sodden hair behind his ears and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. The river had carried him far to the south, he was not able to see western Osgiliath in the north. The ruined city lay past some bends in the river. There was only a faint glow on the horizon, maybe from campfires in the garrison, maybe from the eastern shore, he could not be sure.

When his boots touched dry sand, his legs gave out under him, and he slowly went down to his knees. His hands went up to his face, and for a moment he squeezed his eyes shut and allowed his exhausted body to tremble violently. The trembling subsided quickly, but when he struggled to his feet to make his way to the western garrison, his body started to shiver with cold. His sodden clothes, boots and chainmail clung uncomfortably to his body, and the cool breeze of the night did not bring the warmth his fatigued body desperately needed. But nevertheless he did not stop to regain some strength, for he knew that his men needed him most in times of crisis.

 

“You have to guide me, my young apprentice!” the Poet’s quiet voice woke him from his light slumber. “When we enter eastern Osgiliath, we have to find shelter to hide our faces and find means to escape to the wilderness swiftly.”

Anakil nodded against the Poet’s chest, transforming a yawn into a low moan. There was only one place he could think about just now. “The stables,” he whispered back. “Maybe we left one or two horses behind in our retreat. It is a good place to hide, and it is quite close to shore.”

There was noise in the distance. Anakil recognized the sound immediately, for it was the many voices and sounds of a busy garrison. His heart constricted in pain at the knowledge that it had to be the noises of eastern Osgiliath, a place that had been his home for many months. Everything had changed in less than a day and a night. Eastern Osgiliath now belonged to the enemy. The great bridge was destroyed. The voices and footsteps and campfires were not the sounds he knew well, even though they sounded similar. This was not the safety of home, this was a place to fear, that could turn out to be deadly and painful much faster than he could imagine right now.

He squinted through one half closed eye, unable to approach the garrison without looking, and the sight of the ruined bridge close by, lit by many fires, sent another surge of pain through his heart. The smell of battle still lingered in the air, blood and ashes and pain. There were the cries of the wounded and dying, and even though these were the cries of the enemy, he knew that on the opposite side of the river, in western Osgiliath, there would be the same cries piercing the night. His first great battle was over, and he wished never to see such slaughter and gruesome death again.

He moaned against the Poet’s chest, unable to close his eye and unable to ignore the stench of death. Dark shadows moved around the campfires, occupied the ruins and tents, Orcs and Southrons alike, but they did not mix, every race kept to themselves. They might fight for the same master, but they did not mingle otherwise.

The Orcs that had accompanied them left them at the first ruins of the old city. The Poet bent down over Anakil’s head to better hear the boy’s instructions and to conceal his dirty but pale face from the on looking eyes. The streets of eastern Osgiliath were busy, but the Southrons did not notice a small injured boy in the arms of an old, dirty man. There was chaos around them, men and Orcs rushing about, officers shouting orders, and there were dead bodies everywhere, men and Orcs and horses.

On their way to the stables, they passed the quarters of the boys. There was still smoke coming from inside the building, and a part of the roof was missing. Lieutenant Darin’s dead body blocked the entrance, next to him lay three dead Orcs, and behind him…

Anakil squeezed his eyes shut. He did not want to see the defiled, charred, broken bodies of the boys who had been his comrades, even though most of them had not treated him well. He had never wished them serious harm, and now many of them were dead.

Lieutenant Darin’s nose still bore the dark spots the sun had burned upon it, and despite the blood there was still a shadow of authority on his face.

Anakil could feel tears in his eyes, and suddenly he remembered the last words Lieutenant Darin had spoken to him. ‘I would return to the mountains, where I was born. My wife and my two small sons are waiting for me there.’ They would hope every morning and every evening for his return, but they would never see him again, for he had died a soldier’s death in eastern Osgiliath, trying to protect other men’s sons.

Anakil suddenly realized that in battle not only nameless soldiers died, but friends, brothers, fathers, sons. For the first time he wondered how many friends he had lost forever this night. “May you rest in peace,” the boy whispered, and tears cleared glistening paths on his dirty face.

 

There was only silence. There were no soldiers on horseback, searching for the survivors and the dead. There were no survivors like him, slowly making their way back to the garrison. There were no dead bodies, carried to shore by the current of the river. Boromir of Gondor was walking alone along the western shore of the Anduin, and he could not fight the feeling of dread that started to creep into his thoughts.

He knew that fighting a battle included losing the lives of friends, comrades, fellow soldiers, but how many lives had they lost this night? Minas Tirith was safe, but what had this temporary safety cost them?

He was only able to move slowly, pain in his left knee forced him to limp, and his rumbling stomach reminded him that he had not eaten for quite a long time. His sword was still at his side, and his trembling right hand reached for the hilt of the weapon, grasping it tightly. The pain in his knee intensified with every heavy step. He did not remember being wounded thusly, but he knew that some injuries went unnoticed in the heat of battle.

There was a dark spot on the ground a few hundred yards away, a human shadow. Boromir quickened his step, and when he was close enough, he saw that it was indeed a man in the garb of the Ithilien Rangers, collapsed face first with his head and upper torso in the dry sand, the body below the waist in the gently moving waves of the river. He dragged the body a few feet onto dry land and turned him on his back.

His breath caught in his throat. His hand immediately reached for a cold neck to feel for a pulse, and his body sagged in relief when he felt a strong and steady heartbeat below his fingertips.

“Faramir!” he whispered.  


 


	21. The survivors Part 2 - The ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

XX

The stables were empty, and there was complete darkness. They were alone. The Poet set Anakil down as soon as the heavy wooden door closed behind them. The old messenger’s breathing was loud and laboured, and Anakil felt bad for being the source of his exhaustion. “Are you all right, Poet?” he whispered, concerned.

“You are heavier than you look, my young apprentice” the Poet answered. “I am afraid I need a place to rest and regain some strength soon.”

“I will light a torch and…,” Anakil started, but the Poet interrupted him quickly.

“The darkness is our friend and ally!” he said. “We do not want to draw the enemy’s attention to our being in their middle.”

Anakil nodded, then he remembered that it was dark indeed, and the Poet could not see his movement. “You are right,” he whispered. “I know this place well, even in darkness. Take my hand, I will lead you to an empty stall. Nobody will see us hiding in there if they open the stable door.” He touched the Poet’s arm and felt the man tremble slightly. Their clothes were still damp, and the Poet had carried him for a longer time than Anakil had thought the gaunt man able to. His own feet were bare, and the stony floor of the stables felt cold as ice.

The Poet grasped the boy’s hand. Anakil extended his free arm to feel any unexpected obstacles before walking into them and started moving towards the few closed stalls of the stables. He unerringly found his way in the darkness, but nevertheless he breathed a sigh of relief as his hand touched the wood and iron of one of the stalls that had housed the more difficult horses until earlier this night.

He let go of the Poet’s hand to fumble for the heavy lock, for to his surprise he found the stall closed. The Poet’s breathing had calmed down a bit, and the trembling in his hand had lessened, but Anakil knew that only rest and food could restore his companion to his normal strength.

“Sometimes we feed the animals stale bread left over from the meals. When we have found a place to settle down, I will try to find …”

… THUD …

He was interrupted by the sound and feel of heavy hooves thundering against the wood under his fumbling fingers. Hot breath brushed his hair, and a wild neigh pierced the silence.

He stifled a shout, let go of the lock and jumped back in surprise, bumping into the Poet, who grunted and staggered backwards, but caught the boy around the waist and somehow succeeded in keeping both of them from hitting the floor. There was another loud neigh, heavy hooves thundered against the wood once more, then there was silence.

Anakil could hear the blood thundering in his ears. He had never been so startled in his entire life. For a moment his legs felt as if they were not able to support him any longer, and he welcomed the Poet’s arm around his waist, otherwise he knew he would have collapsed to the floor.

“The Southrons do not house their horses in closed stables.” The Poet was the first to regain his speech. “This must be an animal of Gondor, the horse that went mad. I should have thought about it and informed you in due time. I apologize for my mistake, young Anakil.”

“We left one horse behind?” Anakil gasped. He felt confident on his legs again and shrugged off the Poet’s supporting arm. “This is one of ours?” The heavy hooves struck the wood once more. Anakil flinched and was glad that the Poet could not see him.

“One of the garrison’s heavy working horses started to be difficult to handle days ago and has been confined to the stall ever since,” the Poet explained. His voice was strong and confident, despite the fatigue he had shown mere moments before. Anakil envied the older man his calmness and strength in facing the incalculable surprises of war. “I overheard some stable hands talking about it a few days before this terrible night. The horse was unmanageable; I am not surprised that none of the boys felt fit to handle it in the hurry of the retreat.”

The horse was not ready to calm down, Anakil could hear it move restlessly about the confined space, nickering and neighing. The boy sat down in front of the stall and pulled at the Poet’s hand, indicating him to sit down as well. The Poet complied readily enough, trusting his young companion that this was a safe place to be.

The door to the stables was closed, they could only imagine the enemy’s camp that surrounded their hiding place. The moving horse in the stall drowned out every sound that made it inside the building. Anakil realized that his fear of their situation seemed to have disappeared, and to his surprise he felt guilt form a hard knot in his stomach.

He had been responsible for the horses’ welfare for a very long time, and now that he was training to be a messenger, he had never spared a thought for his former charges and loyal companions. They had left one of his charges on the eastern shore to fall into the hands of the enemy, and he had not known anything about it. His father would give him a well deserved tongue lashing for forgetting that the horse you rode could be more important than the weapon you carried. “Do you know which horse we are dealing with?” he asked.

They were not touching in the darkness, but the Poet’s voice was very close. “Nobody felt the need to tell me his name, but I have heard that it is one of the working horses, brown, big and exceptionally ugly.”

“Glaurung?”

The horse snorted and stomped his hooves on the ground. Anakil was on his feet in a second and forced open the lock to the stall before the Poet could try to stop him. “GLAURUNG!” he shouted, angry, as he opened the wooden door and stepped into the stall with his hands on his hips. “What do you think you are doing?”

“Anakil!” the Poet’s voice warned him from outside the stall. “Anakil, be careful!”

“Glaurung, it’s me!” The horse stopped moving about, and the boy stepped further into the stall, too angry with himself and with the horse to even consider the danger of his actions. “He has never hurt me, Poet,” he explained. “He will not start today.”

The boy knew this horse well, and he refused to believe that it would harm him. They had grown up together, they had faced the dangers of Ithilien together, and now fate had brought them together in this dark, hopeless place in the middle of the enemy’s camp, where they might need each other to be able to see the next sunrise. He refused to believe that his childhood companion would trample or bite him, despite the horse’s behaviour a few moments before.

And he was right. After a moment of hesitation, the horse greeted the boy by rubbing its big head against narrow shoulders in a gesture of affection. “Glaurung, you are nothing but big trouble.” He seldom called the horse by its given name, only when he was very angry. The horse seemed to realize its young master was upset, for it nickered in a friendly way and lowered its nose to search the boy’s clothing for something edible. The boy smacked the big head with a flat hand, harder than in play but not hard enough to be mistaken for serious punishment.

The horse’s breath was hot on Anakil’s face. The boy reached out to hug the strong neck and press his body against the horse’s flank for warmth. “You are nothing but big trouble, old boy, but I am glad you are here!” The horse nickered again, a low, friendly sound, and Anakil tenderly stroked the long, dishevelled mane.

Sometimes there were friends to be found in the strangest of places.

“Anakil?” The Poet’s voice was close behind, but the boy knew the old messenger was still outside the stall. “Did the beast harm you? Anakil?”

“He would never hurt me, Poet,” Anakil repeated, and he was glad that the Poet could not see the tear that had somehow appeared on his cheek. He pressed his face into the horse’s mane for a moment to wipe away the moisture. “We grew up together on my father’s farm. My father sold him to the army not very long ago. We have never been parted in our entire life. I guess he was behaving badly because he did not understand why none of his masters was there with him any more.” Anakil caressed the animal’s nose. “We have found a strong and loyal ally, Poet.”

Anakil could hear the Poet entering the stall. A hand reached out for him, touching his arm, and he took the hand and guided it to the horse’s neck. The Poet carefully stroked the thick muscles below short hairs, and the animal did not move to avoid the touch. “Are you sure you can control this animal in the darkness, my young apprentice?” the Poet asked,

Anakil nodded. “I need no bridle and no light, I can guide him with my voice, my lord. Trust me.” He whispered a few words into the animal’s attentive ears and touched the horse’s forelegs with his hand. The horse obediently lay down on the cold floor. Anakil pulled the Poet down with him to lean against the warm body. “He will provide us with warmth and protect us with his life until we have regained some strength and have found a way to get out of here,” he said.

Now that there was silence in the stables, they could hear the sounds of the enemy’s camp again. Anakil wrapped both arms about the horse’s neck, more for comfort than for warmth, for now that they had some time to think, he could feel the fear and panic return, emotions he had been able to suppress for a short moment, but now he could barely keep himself from trembling, as fear and hopelessness clouded his mind like a dark blanket. “I would appreciate it if you would come up with a way to the west before the Southrons have established an orderly garrison, and before first light,” he whispered.

The Poet chuckled in the darkness. “I promise you, my young apprentice of the Anduin and of the wild horses, that I will do my very best.”

 

 

There was darkness. He was unable to see anything at all. He could smell the grass and the earth, and he could hear the river flowing nearby. There was breathing next to him, the much welcome sound of another living being, and the sound reminded him that he should breathe, too.

Faramir opened his mouth and sucked in air greedily. The air rushed down his throat to fill his lungs, and his body began shaking with coughing. He felt a strong hand on his back, another one on his shoulder, supporting him, helping him sit to ease the coughing. The fit subsided slowly, and he was able to breathe more freely, but still the hands did not let him go.

Both supporting hands moved to his back, while his cheek was carefully pressed against something warm, firm and damp; a shoulder clad in damp clothes, he decided. He did not fight the warm embrace but opened his eyes to see the river very close, lit by a sky full of stars and the moon. “Easy, little brother,” a well-known voice whispered into his ear. “Don’t move, just breathe for a moment.”

“Boromir.” Memory came back to the Captain of Ithilien, memory of the battle, of the loss of Eastern Osgiliath, of the downfall of the bridge, of fighting the waters of Anduin in a desperate struggle for life. His arms came up to return his brother’s warm embrace, and he managed to smile at Boromir’s broad shoulder. “Still alive, brother?”

“Still alive.” Boromir started laughing, a deep laugh that Faramir could hear as well as feel rumbling against his chest. “But, I fear, this time we are both in worse shape than when we last saw each other.”

Faramir pulled back to look into Boromir’s face and felt his muscles ache in protest at the movement. Boromir kept his hands on his brother’s shoulders, and Faramir was glad for the support, for he felt weary and bruised, even though he did not seem to be seriously wounded anywhere. He shiverws with cold, though, for his clothes were still damp, and his chainmail pressed the fabric firmly to his body. Boromir’s mail lay next to them in the grass, and the Captain General looked far more comfortable then Faramir felt. “I did not think I would make it,” Faramir confessed, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “And I thought I had seen you for the last time when the bridge came down behind us.”

“It is not so easy to get rid of me, brother,” Boromir replied, still smiling. Then his face darkened. “You scared me for a moment. I found you lying half in and half out of the water, unmoving.”

“I do not remember when and how I reached the shore,” Faramir confessed. “Did you wait a long time for me to wake up? I suppose you have sent the others upstream to camp to give aid to the healers or seek their attention?”

Boromir’s face darkened even more, and he squeezed his brother’s shoulders before letting go of him. “Faramir, I ended up half a mile downstream from here, and on my way upstream I did not find a single man on the shore, either dead nor alive. I fear we have to mourn numerous losses this night. But the bridge is destroyed, and the West is safe.”

For now! Faramir wanted to add, but he did not say the words, for he knew that his brother did not have to be reminded that this night’s dead had only bought them some time; they had not won the war.

Eastern Osgiliath was lost, the great city was split into two, and Faramir knew that this loss pained his brother greatly. The old capital had been in ruins for centuries, but it had always been the light in the darkness, the command of the Captain General, the stronghold that had never wavered, that had held open the passage into Ithilien. Now Ithilien was on its own, connected to the rest of Gondor only by the Cair Andros ferry. And if Osgiliath could fall in only one night, Cair Andros was not a safe harbour any more. Faramir desperately hoped that Henneth Annûn was still hidden from the enemy’s hordes, and that Mablung and his men were well.

“The bridge is destroyed, and the West is safe,” he confirmed, his voice firm.

Slowly, carefully, Faramir pulled his chainmail over his head and discarded it next to Boromir’s in the grass. “It is still dark,” he said. “For a time, I was sure none of us would live to welcome another sunrise.”

“We will live to see many sunrises, little brother!” Boromir rose and offered a hand to his brother to pull him to his feet. Faramir accepted the helping hand, and together they started to walk upstream. Boromir was limping heavily, and without hesitating or asking for permission, Faramir slung his arm around his brother’s shoulder for support. The discarded sets of mail they left behind.

“It was an honour to fight at your side, Captain,” Boromir said, breathing heavily. Being alone with his brother, he did not hide that his injured leg pained him greatly. “Your Rangers fought bravely, we could not have done without them.”

“They are good men,” Faramir replied. “The best.”

“I fear the men of Osgiliath will not agree with your judgement – and their Captain will put in a word in their favour, too.”

Faramir was glad that his older brother’s spirits had not been broken by the events of the night. Gondor needed her Captain General’s strength and confidence, now more than ever before. “I am too weary to start a fight about this matter,” he confessed.

“Always avoiding a fight he cannot win.” Boromir slapped his brother’s back. “You have always been the wiser of the two of us, saving your strength for the fights that really matter.”

“No fight truly matters,” Faramir objected. “Only peace does.”

Boromir sighed heavily, and they spoke no more.

 

 

The garrison of the enemy was slowly quieting down. The shouting they heard inside the stables became more and more infrequent, and every now and then they could hear someone, Southron or Orc, open the door and peer inside, but the strong odour of horse dung and straw seemed to drive those intruders away. For now. The stables were a good place to hide for two men who did not want to be seen, but they were far from being a safe place. Thousands of Southrons and Orcs had driven the men of Gondor out of Eastern Osgiliath, and sometime during this night or later in the morning they would claim every conquered ruin for their own purposes.

Anakil toyed with the small knife he had taken in the Captain General’s tent. He had offered the weapon to the Poet, but the Poet had told him to keep the knife for now, for if they were discovered or captured, the enemy would concentrate on the older man, considering him the more dangerous enemy, therefore it was more likely that the boy could make use of the weapon.

The horse’s body gave them warmth, but they had not found edible food or any water in the stables. Anakil could hear his stomach rumble angrily, even though fear prevented him from feeling hungry at all. They did not speak much. The boy did not like the menacing silence, but he did not want to disturb the Poet’s thoughts, hoping that the old messenger was conjuring up a way to stay alive.

His thoughts strayed to his brothers, somewhere safe on the western shore, maybe helping the healers, maybe resting from the exhausting fight. His treacherous mind told him that it was highly possible that his brothers had died either in the fighting ranks, in the retreat, during the last stand on the bridge or while trying to swim to shore, but he did not listen to this tiny voice of reason. He had to believe that his brothers were alive and well, that he would see them again, that all of them would some day sit at home at the big wooden table, telling mother and father and their sisters stories of this terrible day, laughing and joking. Life, the future, had to have more in store for him than being cold and frightened and hungry, than sitting in the darkness of an almost deserted ruin in the middle of thousands of enemies. He realized that regardless of what he had seen this night, what had happened to him, he was not ready to die.

“We have to get out of here,” he said.

“I have come to this conclusion as well,” the Poet answered dryly.

“But you don’t know how.” It was not a question. Anakil tried not to sound too disappointed.

“There are many ways, but none of them is safe for the two of us,” the Poet explained. “But the hour grows late, and we will feel the lack of water soon. There is no use in tarrying here, my young apprentice. We have to leave the hospitality of this ruin of stone soon or …” For the first time since they had met, the Poet did not finish a sentence.

“Or meet our death trying,” Anakil finished for him.

“Are you prepared, Anakil?” Anakil could feel the Poet’s hand on his shoulder, firm and surprisingly warm.

Anakil felt a smile creep onto his face. He was glad for this smile of desperation, because otherwise he would have wept. “I will never be ready … to die. But I am ready to go. … How will we leave this place?”

“There is no safe way of leaving, no guarantee that the enemy will not recognize us for what we are, therefore there is no right and wrong. We are gamblers this early morning, my young apprentice, and this time, we do not use the power of words in our game but the stealth of silence. Are you able to control the horse?”

“He will do what I tell him to do,” Anakil assured the old messenger.

“Can you tell him without words? Our language is one of our greatest enemies this night.”

“I can do this. We understand each other, don’t we, old boy?” Anakil patted the warm neck he used as pillow for his head, and the horse nickered in response.

The Poet’s hand on his shoulder squeezed almost painfully, then it let go. “You will lead the horse out of here. We will take the fastest way to the northern end of the city, and we have to continue north for a long time. We must go as far as Cair Andros to be able to cross the river safely. We cannot risk using one of the bridles left behind in this stable, for they bear the white tree of Gondor. Keep your hand in the horse’s mane all the time, even if he does not need to be led, for if we are recognized for what we are, it will help you to quickly mount the animal and flee. I will walk beside you and shield you from view, and should someone address us, I will be the one to answer.”

“You want to just walk out of here?” Anakil did not believe what the Poet had just told him. “There are thousands of Southrons and Orcs out there.”

“Sometimes creatures are blind to the truth before their eyes. We fooled them once with our boldness and with the ability to speak their tongue. We can fool them again. Things happen!”

“Things happen. The Ithilien Rangers taught me this much during my brief stay there. There is no safe way,” Anakil said. “You asked me to trust you earlier this night. I still trust you, Poet.”

“Then let us not linger here. The sun will rise soon, and our strength will not return with first light, nor will the enemy be blinded by the first rays of an Ithilien sunrise.”

 

 

It calmed him to feel the big horse at his side. Anakil clutched a chunk of mane tightly with his left hand, even though the animal followed him willingly wherever he would lead it. For a moment he closed his eyes in the darkness of the stables and imagined that he was home on his father’s farm, bringing in the horses for the night. He fondly remembered some of those nights, when he had walked down to the river to whistle for the horses, when he had enjoyed the peace and quiet of being alone with the loyal animals, of guiding them home through the darkness. Now he was on his way home as well.

The Poet had one hand on his shoulder to stay close to him in the darkness of the ruin, with his free hand he felt for the door. When his hand touched the wood, he let go of Anakil’s shoulder. “Are you prepared to face the starlight?” he asked.

“Just one thing …Poet …,” Anakil whispered and opened his eyes. “I would like to know your real name.”

The Poet chuckled quietly. “Why?”

“Some of the men have promised a bottle of good brandy to the lucky one who can discover your real name,” Anakil explained. “When we reach the western shore, I need a present for two very thirsty soldiers. My brothers’ birthday is less than a month ahead.”

“Nobody has ever been so bold as to simply ask me.” The Poet chuckled again. “You saved my life in the water, my famous young apprentice, and so here I promise you that I will tell you my name the very next evening we spent together on the western shore.” The old messenger prevented an answer by opening the door and stepping out into the busy city of ruins that had been the eastern Osgiliath garrison some hours ago.

 

 

Anakil kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the ground to avoid looking into the eyes of a Southron or even worse, an Orc. The streets between the ruins were busy. He could smell them, he could hear them, and sometimes he could feel them when one of them touched him when brushing past him in a hurry. The two of them walked slowly, casually, trying to blend in, trying to not raise suspicions. An Orc snarled a few words at them. The Poet snarled back at him in the speech of the Southrons, and they continued unharmed.

Anakil chose a path that led them slightly to the northeast to avoid the narrow streets close to the bridge. They had agreed that they would stay away from the river as long as possible while in the city. Only when the ruins lay behind them would they follow the stream northbound.

There were many dead Orcs and a few dead Southrons lying in the narrow streets, but Anakil didn’t care much about them. But more bodies started to appear when they crossed one of the main paths that led to the bridge. The Southrons had left Gondor’s dead where they had fallen; they had not even bothered to clear the busiest streets but made their way over or around the broken bodies of the fallen soldiers. Only the weapons had been collected by the victorious soldiers. Anakil knew what Orcs did to the dead, men and their own, and he shivered slightly. The vile creatures would sate their hunger on his fallen comrades soon.

Dead eyes stared up at Anakil, eyes of men that had served with him, some of whom he recognized. He thought of their names when he passed by. Red blood turned black covered their bodies, sometimes their mouths were still open in the final cry before death. Anakil could not stand the sight very long, and he could not stand the knowledge what would happen to them. With a shuddering a sigh he hid his face in the long mane of the horse.

“Don’t show any weaknesses,” the Poet hissed close to his ear. “The Southrons do not suffer a man who does not face death, and in their reckoning you have already reached the age of manhood.”

Anakil nodded and looked down again, careful to not step on one of the dead or on a severed limb, and careful to quickennig his pace slightly to leave the path of dead as soon as possible. He tried to convince himself that he honored the dead by looking at them for a last time, for still he could not bring himself to look up and face the hordes of the enemy.

 

 

They passed the garrison unchallenged and reached the river Anduin at the northern end of eastern Osgiliath. There were no dead here, only the grassy shore and the soft moving waves. The horse stepped into the shallow water and bent its head to drink. Anakil loosened his grip on the horse’s mane and scooped up some water in his hands.

The Poet whispered a warning.

Something hard touched the boy between the shoulder blades, and he stumbled forward and fell to his knees in the shallow water of the river. Quickly he scrambled to his feet and turned around. There was an Orc with a long spear a few paces behind him, and it did not look friendly. Anakil had neither heard nor smelled it approach.

The creature snarled a question at him.

The Poet answered.

The Orc repeated the question, pointing with the spear at Anakil.

Anakil raised his hands in the gesture of: I am sorry.

“He asked you why you do not wear shoes,” the Poet translated and stepped away from the boy to present a second target for the Orc.

Anakil knew that their casual walk was over. The Orc had found them out and would alert his comrades soon. In a few seconds dozens of enemies would surround them.

The boy had made many mistakes tonight.

It was his fault that the two of them were stranded on the eastern shore. His mistake had endangered the Poet’s life. For the first time this night, he wanted to do something right. “Are Orcs able to swim?” he asked.

The Orc snarled at him and waved his spear, unsure what to make of the big ugly horse, the small, slender boy and the old, gaunt man.

The Poet shook his head.

The Orc uttered a shout of alarm

Anakil removed the small knife from his belt and tossed it to the Poet. The old messenger caught the weapon, not caring that he touched the blade and drew some blood. “Anakil …!”

Anakil did not listen to the word of protest. He stepped back to get out of reach of the spear. “Glaurung cannot carry two and escape. The horse is yours. I’ll swim!” Then he turned around and dove head first into the water.

He resurfaced a short distance away and turned on his back to catch a glimpse of the shore. The Orc lay on the grassy shore, his throat cut from ear to ear. The Poet had mounted the horse and was racing northbound. The Orc’s shout had alerted the guards. Some Southrons sent arrows after the fleeing messenger, but as far as Anakil could see, they did not hit their target. Nobody hurried into the water to pursue the boy, but he could hear hoof beats coming from the bridge. The Southrons rode out to chase and capture the Poet.

“I will learn your name and win the bottle of brandy!” Anakil whispered after the disappearing form of horse and rider, then he turned around to swim to the western shore. “Run, Glaurung! Run!”

 


	22. The Survivors Part 3 - Two shores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

XXI

He felt nothing at all. Somewhere in the back of his mind Anborn knew he should feel pain, exhaustion, hunger and cold, but all of his senses were numb. His bare feet were bloody, his body covered with wounds both large and small, his hair damp. He was clothed only in his undershirt and breeches. He could not remember when he had eaten his last decent meal, but he was not hungry at all.

He was alive.

He did not yet know whether being alive was a good thing. He had fought the river, and at least from that fight this night he had emerged victorious, even though the river had claimed his sword, his boots, his shirt and his cloak. But it had drained the last strength from his weary body, and now he was moving on sheer will alone, too stubborn to just collapse on the riverbank and get some rest. There might be comrades upriver who needed his help, and as long as he did not feel any pain, as long as his body was ready to move, he would continue walking, all the way to Cair Andros if necessary.

His eyes were open, but they did not see much - only darkness and shadows, the colours of the night. Water trickled from his hair onto his cheeks, sometimes a single drop found its way into one of his ears. He did not hear anything; the sounds of the flowing river nearby went unnoticed. He was deaf and blind, and his mind was too numb to remember the friends and comrades who had fallen, or to feel the grief and loss and terror of this night’s battle.

In this state, he was more dangerous than a fully alert warrior, for he was acting on instinct alone, the instincts of a Ranger, a predator. Nothing was important except survival and the distant thought of people who might be in need of his help.

The faint glow of campfires in the distance caught his attention, and he quickened his pace. The fires illuminated the great bridge of Osgiliath, now in ruins like all the other structures of the ancient city. They had destroyed beauty this night, beauty wrought out of stone and, more important, the beauty of many souls. A distant sting of pain and guilt penetrated the haze that blocked out his feelings for a second, making him flinch with pain.

The campfires were very near now, clearly distinguishable between the ruins of Western Osgiliath, and there were shadows moving about, the shadows of men. Anborn’s foot bumped into a larger stone, and he lost his balance. His numb arms were unable to break his fall, and he crashed face first onto the riverbank. A muffled sound of pain and anger escaped his throat, and he slowly rolled on his back. His gaze focussed on a dark sky full of stars.

“Who goes there?” a voice called out to him.

He jumped to his feet like an animal, ignoring the protest in his heavy limbs, and his eyes caught movement to his right. His fingers balled into fists and he jumped at the moving shadow with a loud cry. Strong arms caught his wrists and held his arms immobile, while another arm caught him from behind and pressed a dagger to his throat. He kicked back with one leg, and one bare foot connected with a knee. His attacker yelped in pain and surprise, and the pressure of the dagger at his throat lessened, but only for a second.

“Identify yourself,” a voice whispered in his ear.

He he had to concentrate to remember his name. There was only exhaustion and emptiness in his thoughts. But before he could summon up the strength to speak, his wrists were released. “Anborn?”

The dagger disappeared, and a warm cloak was thrown over his cold shoulders. “Anborn!” He nodded, recognizing his name, and found himself caught in a joyful embrace. “Anborn! It’s Tugor and Mohar! We are so glad to see you. You are the first of those who fought on the bridge to make it back to camp.”

The warmth of the cloak brought some feeling back into his body, and the familiar voice helped to clear the haze that surrounded his head. Pain and cold drained the last energy from his weary body, and his knees gave out under him. Two pairs of strong arms caught him and supported him.

“Tugor. Mohar.”

He tried to smile at the two young Rangers, but the smile died on his face. Tugor had a bloody slash across his face, stitched but not bandaged, dried blood still covered his cheeks and dirtied his hair. Mohar’s neck was bandaged, and a piece of his left ear was missing. Both young men looked hungry and exhausted, and blood still stained their clothes and weapons. “What are you doing out here on guard?” Anborn asked. „You look as if you left the healers’ tent without permission.”

“All men who can walk and hold a weapon are on active duty,” Tugor explained. “And still there are too few of us to search the riverbank for survivors. There are too many wounded and too few healers. And too many dead…,” he added in a low voice.

They started walking towards the ruined city.

“The Captain?” Anborn managed to ask, even though he dreaded the answer.

“As I said, you are the first of those who fought on the bridge to make it back to camp,” Tugor said slowly. “Some of the older able-bodied soldiers of Osgiliath able to walk and talk are trying to establish order in the garrison. They sent us to stand guard near the river. The few Ithilien Rangers I have seen so far are among the wounded. The only officer of Osgiliath I have met has less than an hour to live. Whether there are other Lieutenants still alive, I do not know. The Captain is missing.” Tugor sighed. „The Captain General as well.“

 

 

He had made another mistake this night. Maybe, he thought, it was in his very nature, maybe he was unable to do anything right. The river was wide and cold, there was darkness, and he was alone. The eastern shore was still very near, and the western shore a lifetime away. His arms and legs were throbbing with pain, and he was breathing hard.

He could not defeat the water again tonight. His body was too exhausted to fight against the waves much longer, and in his mind he knew that he was not willing to try. Anakil of the Anduin did not want to drown in the river that had always been his friend.

He turned to float on his back, moving his arms and legs to keep only his head above the waterline. The current carried him to the southeast, towards the shore he had tried to leave behind. He thought about the Poet and the strong and loyal working horse, and he realized that neither the Poet nor he were heavy riders. The strong animal most probably would have been able to carry them both and still have managed to escape. But he had not thought before he had acted – again! – and now here he was, exhausted, cold and alone, and on his way back to the eastern shore.

The river swept him downstream, and his feet touched the sand far to the south than where he and the Poet had reached the shore after the downfall of the bridge. He staggered out of the water, immediately missing the waves that had carried a part of his weight. His legs wanted to give out under him, but he did not let them, for he knew he was most vulnerable on the open shores of the river. His bare feet were cold but not yet numb, small stones hurt like burning irons and twigs seemed to pierce his toes when he stepped on them.

He hoped the Southrons and Orcs had not sent scouts to look for him and believed him either drowned in the river or out of their reach on the western shore, but he could not be sure. He was far away from the ruins of Eastern Osgiliath, and he posed no threat to the enemy, but he knew he was also far away from safety.

The trees of Ithilien stood close to the river, but not close enough for his liking, for he was moving slowly, breathing hard, to reach their protective cover. He breathed a shuddering sigh of relief when he reached the dark wood. The roof of leaves was dense enough to block out the light of the stars, but he was not afraid of the darkness. The darkness was his friend for now, it would give him shelter for the rest of the night, guard him while he tried to regain some strength. Water dropped out of his unruly short hair into his sodden clothing, and his teeth clattered with cold. The thick trunks of trees loomed black in the darkness, and the thorny underbrush cut into his already abused feet, but he moved deeper into the embrace of the forest, until he could not see the distant glow of the river any more.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he began to wonder if this night would never end, if there would be eternal darkness and suffering. There had been long nights before, nights full of fear and incomprehensible terror, but never before had a single night lasted this long.

He was afraid.

Suddenly he realized how utterly alone he was.

He collapsed against the trunk of a big tree, his feet too tired and sore to carry him any further. Another sigh escaped his lips, turned into a sob, and he buried his face in his hands. Wetness pooled from his eyes to find many paths down his cold face, and his chest laboured to suck in air between silent sobs. He pressed his eyes shut to avoid the darkness of the forest, to flee into a darkness as black but more comforting, to shut out everything except his pain and grief and exhaustion.

He was too tired to sleep, too tired to block out all the sensations that he had successfully kept at bay until now, too tired to pretend that he had at least some measure of control. He wanted to wake up to find himself in his cot in the garrison, to find out that this night had been nothing but a bad dream, that nobody had fought and died, that the last hours had been nothing more than figments of his imagination. He longed for the warm embrace of his mother, for the soothing voice of his father, for the comforting protection of his brothers. He wanted to feel warmth again, but he could not believe there would come a time when he did not feel empty and cold.

The familiar darkness behind his closed eyelids brought forth thoughts of how much they had lost this night.

The bridge.

The East.

A part of their pride.

Maybe even the Captains all of them loved and followed with a willing heart.

So many men were dead.

Men he had known, men he had called comrades. Maybe his brothers were dead as well, dead and left behind like the many dead soldiers he had seen while escaping Eastern Osgiliath. Maybe he had passed Anagor and Anarion and had not seen them, had missed his only chance to say farewell.

He had not said a proper farewell to those friends and comrades whose corpses he had seen. He had stood next to Irion’s dead body, but he had been in a hurry and had not even been able to say a few words for him. He had only told him he was sorry. Irion, who would only be remembered as one of the many boys that died at Osgiliath.

Anakil remembered seeing some of the other boys, together with Lieutenant Darin, dead, in the Eastern garrison. A few weeks ago, he had been one of them. If he had not left for Ithilien, he would have been one of them this night. Maybe it would have been better to just die with them. Then everything would be over now.

Like it was over for Beldil. Anakil’s shivering body was wracked with coughing, for he was sobbing so hard that he was unable to breathe. He had saved Beldil’s life in the woods of Ithilien, and now his older friend was dead. The boy had not seen the messenger die, but even if he had survived the downfall of the bridge, the injured man would have never been able to swim to shore.

So many dreams had died that night.

Irion had wanted to be a healer. Beldil had wanted to see his family again, find a home in the white city and be a messenger in a time of peace. How was it possible that so many dreams had died that night, and Anakil of the Anduin, a trouble making horse boy who had used ti dream of being a warrior, was still alive?

His exhausted body did not give his brain the time to come up with an answer. Somewhere in the middle of thinking the question, his sobbing abated, for he had cried himself to asleep.

 

 

Many campfires lit the ruins of Western Osgiliath, casting the ancient city in an eerie flickering light. Shadows were dancing everywhere, and from every corner, every hidden pathway, even from the rebuilt quay there were strange noises to be heard, crying, moaning, the sounds of grief and terror. The fighting was over, but still there was no sign of dawn. There were barely enough able-bodied men to guard the garrison. Those who could stand stand and hold a weapon patrolled alone or in small groups, obeying the commands of the elder soldiers who tried to establish a certain degree of order; but some were still caught in the aftermath of the terror of the fallen bridge.

There were no officers present, for those who were not among the wounded, dying and dead had stayed on the bridge with the Captains and had not yet returned.

Anborn saw very few Rangers among the living men when he limped along the main path of the city, and his innards knotted with fear and grief. The Rangers were a small company, veterans like Anborn knew most of his comrades by name, and he had traded stories on long cold winter nights with many of them. Losing a fellow Ranger was like losing a good friend, and he feared that he had lost many good friends today, to the blades of the enemy, to the might of the falling bridge and to the power of the river.

He tried not to think about what was lost but what had been protected when Tugor and Mohar helped him to settle down at an abandoned campfire and left him in search of clean water and bandages. There was no space in the healers’ tents for those who only needed a few stitches, food, water and a good night’s rest.

Anborn allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes and letting his thoughts stray. He was too exhausted to move, too numb and beyond caring to mind his many wounds, even though the warmth that slowly crept back into his limbs brought with it an overwhelming pain. He had thought never to be warm again only a few hours ago, and he relished the sensation and ignored the discomfort.

He remembered the catapult, the tower, the small company behind the enemy’s lines, the deafening sound as the bridge started coming down. After that, there were no clear memories, only single pictures, emotions, sounds, light and darkness. Someone had pushed him into the darkness of the river, maybe the Captain, maybe one of the enemies.

The Captain …

He remembered the Captain’s voice behind him, shouting at him, fading into nothingness only seconds before the cold, wet darkness had enveloped him. He prayed that the Captain had defied both bridge and river, for the man he loved above all others and for the Rangers, who, without their respected leader, would disintegrate into just another bunch of ill equipped, desperate soldiers in a war where hope was almost lost.

Anborn buried his face in his hands. Even on a night like this, when they had lost so much, old fools like he still dared to hope that the light would return. Maybe it was this tiny glimpse of hope even the overwhelming terror had not been able to kill that had driven them behind the enemy’s lines, to destroy something of pride and beauty to keep the White Tower safe, if only for another day, or another week, or maybe even for another year.

Tugor returned with hot water, blankets and bandages and made him lay down next to the fire. Mohar had gone back to his post at the river. The young Ranger cleaned and bandaged Anborn’s many wounds, even though he could not stitch the deeper cuts. Harsh red scars would remain for a long time, until they slowly faded to no more than white lines on tanned skin, little more than memory. Anborn did not care. At the moment there was no woman to touch him and share his bed, and honestly, he did not expect to live long enough to meet one.

The men spoke little, and Anborn suppressed the occasional groan of pain that wanted to escape his lips. The sounds of pain were loud enough without him adding his voice. They were Rangers of Ithilien, they preferred stealth and silence.

“Who has taken over command?” Anborn asked, as soon as the worst injuries were taken care of and he trusted his voice to be level and even.

“I don’t know,” Tugor answered calmly. “I don’t know the men of Osgiliath by name, but they are good men, and they do everything in their power to bring back order. The few Rangers I have seen tend to themselves, their dead and their wounded. There is nobody there to patrol the riverbank and look for those that are missing.”

Anborn pulled a borrowed blanket tighter about his shoulders. “We are lucky the enemy is confined to the eastern shore and cannot reach us here with his catapults,” he said glumly. “Without the bridge destroyed…” He did not finish the sentence. All of them remembered the unspeakable terror the shadows had cast upon them, closely followed by desperation in the face of an overwhelming enemy. “I suppose all our supplies have found a resting place on the bottom of the Anduin?” he asked, just to disturb the silence that started to envelop them. “I feel close to starvation.”

“There are rumours that there are a few barrels of wine down at the quay, all other supplies are lost,” Tugor replied. “I saw a messenger riding off to the White City an hour ago. I hope he will return soon with help from the city guard.” The wounded Ranger rose from the fire and dusted his long cloak. “Until reinforcements arrive and more men return from the river, our swords are the only protection our healers can hide behind. I have left my post in the ring of guards long enough; I have to return to duty.” He carefully clasped his comrade’s hand. “Get some rest, Anborn.”

Anborn shook his still wet hair, the long dark strands brushing his cheeks like small whips. “If you declare yourself ready for duty, I can do so as well.” He rose from his position at the fire, suppressing a groan of pain. “I will get myself boots, a shirt, a cloak and a sword, and then I will join you.”

 

 

The two dark shadows moved along the shoreline in silence, one of them limping heavily, the other walking unhindered but his head bowed with exhaustion. They did not talk. Every step farther north confirmed that their worst fears were reality. They were alone. The river, flowing silent and beautiful at their side, had swallowed not only the stones of the bridges and the army of the enemy, but their own men as well. Many had remained on the bridge despite the terror, despite the knowledge that there was no hope of victory against an overwhelming enemy, and their courage and devotion had led them to a wet, cold grave. The river, silent and beautiful, was the graveyard of Gondor’s finest.

The bodies appeared behind a small bend of the river. There were many of them, some of them bumped each other as if fighting for a little more room in the shallow water of the riverbank. The river was not ready to release its hold on them, their lifeless shells bobbed in the gentle surf, their arms and legs moving as if trying to crawl onto the grassy shore. Some of them lay on their backs, and the white tree of Gondor on their shirts shone ghostly in the moonlight. Why so many dead had been carried to this place, the two Captains did not know.

On the grass of the riverbank, only a short distance away from the dead in the river, a small figure sat cross-legged between two bodies. Faramir met Boromir’s grief-stricken gaze for a moment, then he quickened his steps to a pace his limping brother could not keep up with. Both of them were grateful to find at least one of their men still breathing.

The survivor, a young man whom in other times Faramir would have considered to be no more than a boy, had dragged the two bodies out of the water onto the dry land, the signs of his effort still visible in the sand. Faramir stopped some strides away from the bodies on the grass, deeply moved. One of the men must have been dead before the bridge had collapsed, his chest was bloody, and one of his feet was missing. The other man bore no signs of injuries, he must have drowned. Both had their hands neatly folded on their chest, their eyes were closed, their damp black hair had been carefully brushed out of their faces. The young man between them rested one hand on the shoulder of each, and his dripping body was wracked with silent sobs.

Faramir reluctantly stepped closer. He did not want to disturb the man, but this was not the time to mourn the dead. The soldier’s young face was unfamiliar; it was a man of Osgiliath. “Soldier,” he said softly. The young man did not react. “Soldier!” he said louder, in his Captain’s voice.

The young man slowly raised his head, his pale face streaked with tears, his nose running. He looked very young and lost, his big grey eyes glistening in the light of the moon. He did not say a word, just looked the Ranger Captain in the eyes, his gaze full of terror and agony.

Faramir knelt down next to the dead bodies. “Are you injured, soldier? Do you know who I am?” He needed the youth on his feet, for he knew there were not many soldiers left of both Osgiliath and the Rangers. The enemy would regroup and strike again. But he could not order the young soldier to set aside his grief, for it was this grief that proved that this youth was what they had protected with their blood: young, living, feeling, breathing men, women and children, caught in the middle of the terror of the night.

“I know you, Captain Faramir, my lord,” the youth said, his voice hoarse and breaking. “I am not injured, my lord, just a little wet. I hail from the coast, my lord, I know how to best a river.”

Faramir bent forward and touched the man’s bloody forehead. “There is a cut above your eyes. I want you to see the healer as soon as possible and than report to me for duty. Can you do that?”

“It is just a cut.” The youth looked down at the faces of the dead men beside him, and a strangled sob escaped his throat.

“Did you know these men?” Faramir asked. He had never seen the faces before; they must have been of the Osgiliath Company as well.

The youths head pointed to his left. “This is Maglor,” he said. “A friend.” His head moved to point to his right. “This is Enros. My second brother. We shed our gear together and jumped into the water together. We found Maglor and intended to carry him to shore. But after a while, I could not carry him any more, and I let go. And suddenly, my brother was gone, and I could not find him in the waves. I saw him again moving in the surf, his hand still grasping Maglor’s cloak.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Faramir said, and he meant every word. His gaze drifted downstream to the limping form of his brother, and he had to fight the sudden urge to run to him and hug him tightly. Once again his shoulders slumped with relief at seeing his brother alive. Boromir had always been the stronger one of them, had always protected him with his strong arms and loud laughter. He could not imagine losing Boromir, could not imagine seeing his brother’s dead body in the waves of Anduin and being unable to save him.

This young man had lost a brother and a friend. Faramir put a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder. “Take all the time you need, then report to duty.”

 

 

A few golden rays of the early morning sun found their way through the thick forest of Ithilien to greet all living beings that had slept below the trees or hunted in the darkness. A light breeze stirred the roof of branches and leaves, and the cool air of the morning lazily tickled Anakil’s nose.

The boy opened his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. The light had returned. The longest night of his life was finally over. The waters of Anduin glinted in the west, sparkling like a thousand diamonds under the morning sun. Not a single bird sang in the thick undergrowth of the forest, but today Anakil did not care that the peace of the wilderness was a lie, that the wood was bathed in eerie silence. He was glad that there was light again, and he was glad to be alive.

His clothes had almost dried during the night, and the morning brought warmth back into his cold and tired limbs. He lay with his back against a tall tree, his legs halfway buried in a pile of leaves. He rubbed his eyes with his hands and discovered that there was blood and dirt on his face. He had swum through the river twice; therefore the blood must be his own. He did not care. He was not in pain. His stomach rumbled and reminded him that he had not eaten for a very long time. His mouth was dry. He did not dare to show himself on the open riverbank, so he looked for leaves still wet with morning dew and he sucked greedily at them.

Slowly he pushed the pile of leaves off his legs and discovered that his bare feet were a mess. They were almost black with dirt and dried blood, and even though he did not feel the pain now, he knew he would the moment he tried to walk on the many cuts and bruises. He remembered running and crawling from the river into the woods, remembered the pain. There was nothing he could do about it now, there were no shoes to be found in the wilderness of Ithilien. He pulled his shirt over his head, ripped off both sleeves and wrapped them about his feet in a futile effort to bandage them, then he pulled the sleeveless shirt over his head again.

He was alone, he was unarmed, and he knew he could not stay near the river. He did not know how many enemies had taken Eastern Osgiliath, but he knew that they would eventually find him here. He did not want to think about what they would do to him if they caught him alive. He needed to keep his mind focussed on his survival; it was dangerous to think about what was lost and what might happen to him in the future. The terror of the night was no more than an awful memory in the light of day, but the boy knew that it would return by nightfall, unless he did something about it.

He wanted to go home.

Home was a little more than a mile away and nevertheless it was far out of his reach. He was too weak to swim to the western shore, and he could not fight. He needed help to find his way home, and there was not much help to be found in Ithilien in these dark days. There was no Beldil to ride with him, and the Poet and Glaurung were gone as well, on their way to the north, to Cair Andros and to safety. Nobody would come looking for him; in the aftermath of a battle of this magnitude he doubted that anyone other than his brothers would even miss him.

He did not want to think about his brothers now. He had to believe that he would see them again. He needed a reason to go on, he needed the belief that they would be there when he reached home.

He pushed himself to his feet. He was somewhere in the wilderness south of Osgiliath. He had never been in the southern part of Ithilien before. There was not much known about this part of the Moonland, maybe because there simply was nothing there. Ithilien had been emptied long before he was born, there were no friendly farmers or horse breeders to be found to help him. He had heard something about Rangers in the south, but he knew nothing more about it, neither their names nor the place where they dwelt. He decided that there was no help to be found in the south.

But there were two places in the north he knew, Cair Andros and Henneth Annûn. There were soldiers of Gondor in the north, and he could prove with his ripped shirt that he was a messenger of Gondor. Some Rangers of Henneth Annûn might even remember his face. His only way to help and home led to the north.

He could not take the easiest path close to the water. There was a garrison of Orcs and Southrons at the river now. He had to go east, as close to the Dark Mountains as he dared, and then turn north, passing Eastern Osgiliath hidden in the wilderness, on his way to Henneth Annûn. It was a dangerous and lonely way, but he knew that there was no other choice.

He had survived the shadows and the darkness, and the light of the morning had shown him that hope was not completely gone. He still did not want to die, and as long as his aching feet would could him, he would walk the wilderness of Ithilien and hope that a small boy would not be noticed by the eyes of the enemy.

His feet hurt like fire when he turned his back to the river and started walking eastwards, but he bit his lip and ignored the pain. His nose was running, and he angrily wiped the moisture away with the back of his hand. There was enough light to find a path through the undergrowth. The light had indeed returned to Ithilien, if only for the short duration of a summer day.

 

 

The first rays of the sun bathed the broken bridge in a golden light and destroyed the hopes of those who had dared to believe that this night’s terrors had been nothing but a bad dream, a game the darkness had played with their minds and souls. The pride of Osgiliath was ruined, the east was lost, and in the tents of Western Osgiliath the healers still worked to save some of those who had fought in the darkness.

The light of the morning showed what most of them had feared, that not many of the Osgiliath garrison and the Ithilien Rangers were left standing, and almost no one had escaped without injury. There were no provisions on the western shore, all their bread and dried meat and cheese had been stored near the dining halls on the bridge, and now everything was gone.

Except Anborn none of those who had fought on the bridge had returned to the west, but with the first light of day, the first dead bodies of both men and enemies began appearing near the riverbank or even reaching the shore. There were few of them, for those in heavy armour would not float to shore but sink below the waves. The few guards around the garrison called for help to draw their dead from the water and carry them into the garrison, where they could receive a proper burial. But there were few men available for the many heavy tasks, and they could only retrieve those who washed up next to the remains of the bridge, they could not spare a single man to walk downriver and look for more dead or any survivors.

There was no officer present, and the Captains were still among the missing. The oldest of Osgiliath’s ranks had established good order, but they were as exhausted as their men, and the view of eastern Osgiliath across the river, with burning campfires warming Southrons and Orcs, did nothing to lighten the men’s hearts.

Anborn sighed at his guard post on the river and pulled the borrowed cloak tighter around his shoulders. The morning sun brought warmth to the air, but it did not banish the cold from his heart. Most of the dead that reached the shore were Rangers of Ithilien, for Rangers did not wear heavy armour when fighting, and their bodies were light enough to be carried by the waters. He had pulled more than one comrade onto the grassy shore, but to his surprise, his tired eyes had stayed dry. His grief went far too deep to be cured by weeping. His mangled body ached, he did not care. His only hope was to find someone alive, to welcome a weary comrade home who had bested the enemy, the bridge and the water.

The sun rose higher in the east, bathing the river in a blinding light, blocking out the horror that had been Eastern Osgiliath only a few hours ago. Anborn turned his head to watch the rushing and swirling water for a moment. His eyes tried to follow a single patch of foam drifting in the current, but he failed and lifted his gaze instead to the dark trees of Ithilien on the other riverbank.

The world appeared to be very peaceful and quiet. A light breeze made him shiver slightly, and he lifted his eyes further, to stare at the dark shadows visible on the horizon, the Dark Mountain that hid the Dark Lord’s land from their view. The terror that had driven them to madness on the bridge had come from there, he was sure of that, and in his heart he knew that they would see, feel and hear this nameless terror again before the end.

“Anborn?” someone called his name, and he tore his gaze away from the water.

“Yes?”

A soldier of Osgiliath appeared behind him, in full armour but without his helmet. His black hair had nearly all been burned off by one of the many fiery arrows of the enemy. “Get yourself down to the quay immediately; you are relieved of your post. Some of your Rangers have acquired some meat and bread from the farmers of the riverbank, and they told me to get you so that you will receive your share.” The soldier clapped Anborn’s back and pulled a piece of bread out of the pocket of his cloak. “They are good lads, your comrades, they share with all the men that are on duty and keep almost nothing to themselves. They even sent some meat to the healers’ tents.”

“They are good men,” Anborn replied. “Any news of the Captains? Have they returned?”

“They have not been found yet,” the soldier said.

“Returned,” Anborn insisted. “For they will return.” He nodded his thanks to the soldier. “I will relieve you when I have eaten.” The Ranger pulled his hood over his head and slowly made his way downstream to the quay of Osgiliath. There were few guards down at the riverbank, and even fewer at the remains of the bridge. The bridgehead was intact, as were the first two piers, but in the middle of the structure there was a great hole, too wide to be mended with wooden planks or even secured with ropes. The only way to cross the Anduin at Osgiliath was by boat now. But the enemy had not tried to reach the western shore that way, hopefully because they thought Gondor’s defense too strong, perhaps only because they were regrouping. Anborn hoped for the first but feared the latter.

The Ranger thought of Mablung, Damrod and the other Rangers that had remained in Henneth Annûn, and he hoped that they were well. It was a reassuring thought that at least some soldiers of Gondor had remained in Ithilien, that the last foothold in the beautiful land east of the river was not completely lost.

The sight that greeted him at the quay almost made him smile. Out of the four Rangers there, Mohar was the only one able to walk. The three others had their legs, feet or knees bandaged, but that did not prevent them from guarding several barrels and boxes of food and drink.

Mohar looked frightening with his bloody face, bandaged neck and his missing ear, but there was a friendly smile on his lips, and he coordinated the food rations with the ease of someone who had dealt with hungry soldiers before. The other Rangers appeared in good spirits as well, despite their injuries. The river carried the dead back to the shore, but this place at the quay was full of life.

“Anborn!” Mohar greeted the Ranger with a smile and a friendly wave. “It’s good to see your ugly face in broad daylight again. Take a seat and have a bite of bread and some cold bacon. The farmers that live upriver have sent us everything they can spare. They are good and decent people, the people of the riverbank. They asked about their sons, but I did not know a single one of them. I hope they were not on the bridge.”

“Many people were on the bridge,” Anborn said sadly. “I cannot and will not believe that I am the only one to return alive.”

“There will be others,” Mohar assured him. “Give them time. Maybe some of them did not want to walk upriver to camp in the darkness.” He handed Anborn a large piece of bread and a few slices of bacon. “I fear there is only water in the barrels, the few drops of wine we received are already gone.”

Anborn thanked the young Ranger for the food and took a seat on an empty box to eat, his eyes scanning the quay and the river southbound. Mohar sat down next to him and put a warm hand on his shoulder. “How many have you pulled out of the water?” he asked gently.

“How do you know…?” Anborn started.

“I have asked men to fetch the guards from the river to get some food. All of those who have been tending to the dead have this certain look in their eyes. You have it as well,” he explained.

Anborn rubbed his hands over his eyes. “There are few of us left, Mohar,” he said. “So few. I fear that when we return to Henneth Annûn and tell the lads who will never come back, there will be no laughing, singing and dancing for many evenings.”

Mohar sighed. “Believe me, I do not feel like smiling and laughing at all, not now, and most probably not tomorrow, but for those from the riverbank I smile and laugh and try to help them forget the horror and death for the time they spend here to eat.” The hand on Anborn’s shoulder squeezed firmly, then it let go. “I have to continue smiling for a while; they have put me in charge of the food until there is none left. Enjoy your bread, Anborn. We will talk again soon, I hope.”

“Thank you, Mohar,” Anborn said. “It is good to know that there are people like you to cheer those who have the heaviest burden to bear.”

Mohar clapped him on the back and left him alone.

There were not many people down at the quay, most of the soldiers took their food and returned to their posts. Mohar and the three injured Rangers succeeded in cheering those who did stay for their meal, so there were some smiles and even some laughter in the air. They were facing the death of many, but still there was life to be found in this dark place. With the first sunrays laughter had returned, and suddenly Anborn knew without a doubt that as long as there was a sunrise to bath the White Tower in golden light, Gondor would not lose hope.

His gaze strayed to the south again, beyond the stones of the quay and along the riverbank, until a bend in the riverbed hid the waters from his view. Two dark spots on the green grass had not been there before. He shielded his eyes with his hand and rose from his seat to take a better look. The dark spots were moving towards the garrison, slowly but steadily. They were too tall to be animals and moving too casually in the open to be of the enemy.

“Mohar!” Anborn called. „Down there! Do you see what I see?”

Mohar came to stand beside him and gazed southbound as well. When he looked Anborn in the eyes, there was a smile on his face, but this time the smile included his eyes. He threw his arm about Anborn’s shoulders and squeezed him until the older man winced with pain. “Survivors!” the young Rangers shouted at the top of his lungs. “Survivors approach from the south!”

The men at the quay started to cheer, and soon word reached the rest of the garrison. The silence of the morning disappeared in shouts and laughter.

There were no able-bodied men without a post to meet the two survivors, but the men at the quay observed their approach closely. The taller and broader one was limping heavily, leaning on his slightly smaller, more slender companion for support. Both were clad in dirty shirts and breeches, and their black hair, the taller one’s long and unruly, the slender one’s short and wild, hung about their heads. When they were close enough that Anborn could take a look at their faces, his heart forgot to beat for a second. He felt his eyes water, and for a moment he thought it strange that he had been unable to weep with grief a few moments before, but that he was able to shed a tear with happiness.

“The Captains!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “The Captains have returned!

The garrison cheered again, so loud and long that Anborn was sure the sound carried across the river to be heard in the eastern garrison as well.

 

 

Thoughts were his enemy. Thoughts of home, thoughts of his brothers, thoughts of Beldil. Thoughts of food, of a warm bed, of clean clothes, of shoes. Thoughts of a time when there was no pain. Anakil had found a small spring with cold water to drink and wash his feet, and he had eaten a few berries he had picked along his way, but he was still hungry.

The sun had climbed high; golden rays of light lit the fallen leaves between the old, tall trees. A warm wind stirred the dry branches high above, the only sounds in the thick forest. There were no animals in the damp grass and in the underbrush. The boy was slowly moving east, away from the shore of the Anduin, further east than he had ever been, even on his ill fated hunt with Anborn some time ago. The silence was eerie, almost menacing, and the farther east he ventured, the heavier the silence lay itself on his heart. He knew that he feared the east even more than he should, but he was just a boy, and dreams of the Black Gate had tortured him at night not long ago.

On a clear day, he could see the mountains that surrounded the land whose name nobody ever spoke from the bridge of Osgiliath. The bridge that he would never cross again. He was glad that he could not see the mountains now, for the roof of trees blocked his view to the east. He missed the soothing cold metal of a sword or even a knife at his side. How could someone walk this land, alone, unarmed, and not be afraid of every sound, of every falling leaf? How long could he force himself to move eastward, how far away from Eastern Osgiliath dared he venture before his courage left him and he had to turn to the north? He had lost all sense of distance. He was walking with his head down, his gaze fixed on the ground to avoid sharp stones and twigs. His lower lip was bitten bloody, for his bare feet hurt like fire and sometimes he had to prevent himself from crying out in pain.

He stepped into a small clearing and raised his head to take a look at the sun. The sun was at his back. He shook his head, but did not correct his path. He did not know how long he had been travelling northeast, and he did not care. He only hoped that he was already north of Osgiliath. His feet went numb, and he was grateful, for the pain lessened. He crossed the clearing to enter the wood once again, northbound this time, no closer to the shadows any more. Whatever dwelt in the land behind the dark mountains, in his mind it was like the shadow in the darkness. He had seen and heard and felt the darkest shadows on the bridge this night, and the only thing he knew was that he never wanted to see them close again.

He should have stayed at home. Nobody would have thought ill of him if he had stayed at home to help his handicapped father with the farm and the horses instead of joining the army. With his two brothers serving their Steward, the honour of his family was safe. He could be at the riverbank breaking horses to the saddle in the bright sunlight just now, with his stomach full and his young nieces to watch and admire him. He could be far away from pain and death. But he had left to be a warrior, and here he was, an old messenger’s apprentice, alone in the land between the river and the dark mountains.

His situation was close to being hopeless, but he marched on, for despite pain, hunger, thirst and fatigue, he still was not ready to die.

He would have continued walking until his strength gave out or the darkness told him that it was time to rest, but he was stopped in his march by an arrow that whirred out of the underbrush to his right and embedded itself close to his feet. He halted in his steps, raised his head and took a look around out of dry, red, burning eyes. He seemed to be alone in the thick wilderness; there were only trees, bushes and shadows. But the arrow was real, its brown wooden shaft still vibrating with the force of its impact in the ground.

Suddenly the shadows became alive, and four dark, hooded figures stepped into his path. Two of them bore longbows with arrows nocked, and those arrows pointed at the boy’s face. Anakil sighed wearily, too tired to be startled.

“Who goes there between Ithilien’s trees?” one of the figures asked.

Anakil’s eyes widened, and his head moved abruptly to gaze at the speaker. He remembered the voice, and a sigh of relief escaped his lips. “Lieutenant Mablung!” he exclaimed, and a smile appeared on his dry and bloody lips.

“Troublemaker?” Mablung asked, recognizing the hoarse voice of the horse boy he had met in Osgiliath. The Ranger Lieutenant threw back his hood, and at his silent command the two archers lowered their bows. “Trouble making horse boy! There you are again. Are you making a habit of appearing in places where you are least expected? You had better have a good reason for being out here alone, without shoes and weapons, ragged and dirtier than a stray dog.” The Lieutenant’s voice was stern, but a small smile played at the corner of his mouth.

Anakil coughed, and the Ranger uncorked his water skin and handed it to the boy. Anakil drank greedily, and when he was finished, his voice was almost steady. “Eastern Osgiliath has fallen,” he said. “The bridge is destroyed.”

“That is a good reason.” Mablung’s smile disappeared, and a strange light flickered in his eyes. His companions threw back their hoods to reveal their heads, and the expressions on their faces were grave, almost sad.

Anakil remembered their faces but not their names. They were also Rangers of Northern Ithilien, he had seen them in the cave during his short stay there. Two of them were brothers who always went out on patrol together.

“Did you not know? We sent a messenger to inform you about the battle,” the boy said. Three messengers had left Eastern Osgiliath before dark, and at least one of them had been bound for Henneth Annûn.

Mablung shook his head. “We are on a mission to find out what has delayed the Captain’s return to his command. We did not receive a message from Osgiliath in over a week,” the Lieutenant explained. “Neither from the Captain General nor from our Captain. We could only hope that Captain Faramir and the wounded had reached the river safely after the battle with the Orcs.”

“They did,” Anakil confirmed, remembering the arrival of the Rangers. “But shortly thereafter the enemy attacked with overwhelming forces, and the east had to be abandoned. The bridge was destroyed to deny the enemy passage over the Anduin.” Anakil lowered his gaze. “That is all I know. I found myself on the wrong shore of the Anduin when the fighting was finally over.”

Mablung put a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I see by your shirt that you are a messenger of Gondor now, and even though nobody has sent you on your way with a message, you are the only one who can tell us something about what happened at Osgiliath. You will be our guest at Henneth Annûn to tell us everything you know. From the look of you, you need food, rest and the healer’s attention.”

Anakil nodded. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

Mablung stepped back to whisper some orders to two of his men, and the two Rangers donned their hoods and disappeared swiftly into the underbrush. The third man stayed with them, his hand at his bow.

“Let’s go to the north, Troublemaker,” Mablung said. “If we make haste, we will reach Henneth Annûn by tomorrow morning. Damrod is awaiting our return most eagerly.”

Anakil tried to keep up with the Rangers’ brisk pace and sure footing in the underbrush, but his abused feet did not want to serve him for very long. Soon he found himself panting heavily, and after a short while, his knees gave out under him, and he collapsed to the ground. He felt cold sweat running down his spine and dampening his temples.

Mablung was kneeling at his side immediately, touching his wrist to feel his pulse and putting his other hand to Anakil’s forehead. “Troublemaker, you are burning up!” he exclaimed.

“I am sorry,” Anakil whispered. His feet were numb now, but he could not force his legs to obey his mind’s commands. “I have swum long and walked even longer, now I cannot walk any more. It has been a long and terrible night.”

Mablung picked the boy up and helped him settle comfortably in his strong arms. “You are not heavy, I can carry you for a while,” he said loud. Anakil’s head ended up nestled against Mablung’s shoulder, and the Lieutenant turned his head to whisper into the boy’s ear: “The Captain. Do you know how he fares?”

Anakil shook his head and whispered back: “I don’t know. I don’t even know whether Captain Faramir and Captain Boromir are still alive.”

 

 

Boromir could not even think of riding to the city to give the Steward a personal account of last night’s battle. His injured knee made it impossible for him to sit a horse. Messengers had been sent with the most urgent information and requests, a detailed report would have to wait until both Captains were able to make the journey. Faramir was well enough to master a horse, but Boromir thought it unwise to send his brother alone to their father with news of a lost battle, with yet unnumbered dead and injured. Osgiliath was the Captain General’s command, and the Captain General would answer to the Steward. He could not allow his younger brother to face their father’s biting tongue alone, especially after a defeat that was not Faramir’s responsibility and that would have been even more devastating without the courage of the Ithilien Rangers. The Steward, Boromir thought grimly, would have a different view of this matter, but Boromir knew that without his brother’s recklessness, the bridge would still be standing, and the enemy would be pounding at the gate of Minas Tirith.

Of the company of Rangers, less than a quarter had survived the battle, and most of those who still breathed were among the injured. The men of Osgiliath had to mourn many dead as well, but their numbers were far less than those of the Rangers. Boromir had lost most of his officers, and he had already made a list of names that, with the Steward’s approval, would fill in the empty commissions. Scribes were still busy penning down lists of the dead, the injured and the living. It would take days to write the letters to inform Gondor’s families of the loss of their sons, husbands and fathers.

Boromir remembered his brother, dirty and still clad only in his shirt, boots and breeches, acting as his own scribe today and walking about the camp with ink and a sheet of paper, writing down the names of his own dead. Boromir knew Faramir would write all letters himself, for his brother saw it as one of his duties as Captain of a small company to thank them for their loyalty with friendship that was not ended by death. Writing letters to families and bringing order to the bereft garrison was all they would do the next days until they were able to ride to Minas Tirith.

Luckily, Boromir’s injured knee was only badly bruised. The healers had assured him that there were no broken bones, otherwise he would not have been able to walk. His knee was bandaged, but he had refused tha aid of a stick and had endured the pain all day. His man needed to see him on his feet and in good spirits, so he had ignored the discomfort. The Osgiliath Company had lost a battle, but they had not lost a war. A nameless terror had passed over the river, but it had not reappeared to haunt them, and even though Eastern Osgiliath was lost, a thought that filled Boromir’s heart with pain, there were still Rangers in Ithilien to follow the enemy’s movements, and to warn the soldiers on the western shore should an attack be launched at the heart of Gondor.

The sun had already disappeared in the west to give way to another warm, star filled summer night when Boromir entered the tent he had chosen as his new personal quarters. Compared with the tent he had burned on the bridge, these quarters were small, with barely enough room for a small table and a cot, but it allowed him the small amount of privacy he desperately needed after a long day and an even longer night.

He pulled his shirt over his head and bathed his face in a bowl of cold water someone had put upon his table. There was a towel as well, and he dried his face and rubbed at his neck. A soft snore startled him, and he turned around to find his cot already occupied by a tall body. Black, unruly hair fell into a pale, peaceful face, and Boromir smiled as he recognized his brother.

Faramir was fully clothed and no blanket covered his sleeping form, he must have fallen asleep waiting for Boromir. The Captain General bent down to smooth a dark lock away from his brother’s forehead, glad that after last night’s battle, he still had a brother to occupy his cot.

He was too tired to get himself another mattress, too weary to sleep on the floor, and he could not bring himself to wake his brother and chase him away, so he simply pushed the tall body aside and settled down next to him in the narrow cot. They had often shared a bed and even a blanket when they had been children in the White City, and he knew his brother would not mind if they did so again. The Captain General pulled a warm blanket over both of them and closed his eyes. The softness of the cot, the warmth of his brother’s body next to him and the sound of soft, regular breathing swiftly put his weary mind at ease, and he fell asleep.

And this night, for the first time, Boromir understood clearly how troubling his brother’s dreams could be, for he dreamt as well.


	23. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

XXII

Seek for the sword that was broken  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsel taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur’s bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Boromir opened his eyes to the light of morning. He was out of breath, and cold sweat dampened his brow. His whole body was shaking with exhaustion. He could still hear the growing thunder and a remote voice crying, speaking words he understood but that did not make any sense. Even though his eyes were open and directed at the roof of his small tent, he could still see the dark eastern sky. His head hurt, and he raised his hands to rub his temples. His elbow connected with something solid but soft beneath his blanket.

“Ow!” his blanket complained, and the sleep-tousled head of his brother appeared in his field of vision. “An elbow in the back, now that’s the way to be awoken,” Faramir complained mildly with the hint of a smile on his lips, that disappeared as soon as he got a look at his brother’s face. Faramir sat up in the narrow cot and put a heavy hand on Boromir’s shoulder. “You look as if you saw Numenor rise from the waves.”

“`Twas not that vision of yours, but you are not so far off the mark. I dreamt a strange dream this night,” Boromir said slowly and continued rubbing his temples.

Faramir relaxed and gave his brother’s shoulder a squeeze. “A strange dream,” he repeated. “I am quite familiar with that particular problem, and I can assure you, brother, strange dreams tend to be unpleasant and disturbing, but they seldom kill.”

“I am not used to them. I have never dreamt like that before.” Boromir groaned and lowered his hands.

Faramir rolled out of the cot and stretched his long limbs. “Do not let yourself be troubled by dreams after a long and heavy battle,” he said. “I did have a strange dream last time I slept, before the battle, and I dreamt it again this night, but this is not the time to analyze dreams, even though mine was unsettling and troubling as well. The men need us, and as soon as you are able, we are expected in the city to make our report to the Lord Steward.”

“I know what is expected of us,” Boromir grumbled and shrugged off the blanket. His injured knee protested at the abrupt movement, and he bit his lip in sudden pain. “Speaking of what is expected of us: When did you start sleeping in my bed again? If I remember correctly, you stopped doing that when you turned ten.”

“War creates the unlikeliest of allies and even stranger bedfellows,” Faramir answered lightly, running both of his hands through his unruly hair.

Boromir shook his head. “If only we had had the unlikeliest of allies fighting beside us last night…,” he murmured. He pulled on his heavy boots with a grunt of pain, then looked around the small tent for his sword he had put out of his reach for caution’s sake; he tended to reach for a weapon when awoken in the middle of the night, and that might be dangerous when his brother shared his cot. The words of his dream came back to him, having lost nothing of their urgency, and he whispered under his breath: “Seek for the sword that was broken…”

Faramir abruptly raised his head, his grey eyes dark and narrow. “What?”

“’Tis nothing,” Boromir murmured and scratched his neck. “The words and images of my dream are still occupying my thoughts, that’s all.”

Faramir sat down on the edge of the cot, his eyes never leaving Boromir’s face. “Tell me about it.”

Boromir bent down to retrieve his sword, testing the weight of the faithful steel in his hands for a long moment. “You just told me this is not the time to analyze strange dreams. It is not like you to change your mind so quickly,” he teased. “Are you sure you did not bump your head last night?”

“Tell me!” Faramir insisted. “What did you see? What did you hear?”

The urgency in his brother’s voice made Boromir turn around, and one look at his brother’s face made him swallow the teasing remark that had wanted to escape his lips. He let the sword drop to his feet and sat down next to Faramir on the edge of the cot. He knew the younger man well, and he had never seen him more serious than at this moment. Faramir’s eyes were black, almost like when he was having a vivid waking dream, and his hands were clenched into fists, his knuckles white from the force of the empty grip.

“It was a strange dream,” Boromir began. “I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the west a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying: Seek for the sword that was broken…”

“In Imladris it dwells,” Faramir continued for him.  
“There shall be counsel taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.”

“There shall be shown a token  
That doom is near at hand,” they went on together.  
“For Isildur’s bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand.”

“How…?” Boromir started to ask, and Faramir silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“I dreamt the same.”

\-----  
Findar, the Ranger who accompanied Anakil and Lieutenant Mablung to Henneth Annûn, had just taken over the task of carrying Anakil when he could not force his eyes to stay open any longer, and he fell asleep in the tall Ranger’s arms.

“We can find a way!”

It was Irion’s voice, and somewhere in the back of his mind Anakil knew that Irion was dead, that it was just a dream; but it felt good to hear his fallen comrade for what might be the last time.

“The bear’s cubs want to enter the dragon’s lair?”

The Poet. Wherever he was, Anakil hoped that the old messenger had found a way to safety. He needed to see him again, to learn his real name and win a bottle of brandy for his brothers. And there was still so much he did not know about the power of words.

“We do not have time for discussions.”

Anakil recognized Captain Faramir, not because he knew his voice very well, but because he remembered the moment the Captain had spoken those words, in the courtyard of the Great Hall of Osgiliath, a place that did not exist any more.

In his dream he looked around, and he saw them, all of those that had gathered there to listen to Anborn’s desperate plan, all of those that had followed Captain Faramir in his courageous attempt to destroy the bridge, and of course the two messengers, and the two boys. He was a little startled to see himself standing there, as if in his dream he had turned into a ghost floating a few feet above the ground, looking down at the scene as a silent observer. He tried to reach out and touch Beldil, to tell him to abandon the bridge and get to the safety of the western shore while there was still time, but he could not reach him, could not get his attention. He tried to shout at Irion not to turn his back on the enemy, but the tall boy did not hear him.

“Getting into trouble again, Anakil?”

Beldil. There were just the four of them now, the Captain and the men had disappeared. Those few moments in the yard had been the last time the four of them had been together alive. Soon the first of them would die.

“I am sorry, Irion!” Anakil whispered. “I am so sorry. There was nothing I could do. I did not know!” He could feel tears on his face, and suddenly a strong hand wiped them away.

“Don’t be ashamed of your tears, Troublemaker,” he heard Mablung’s voice close to his ear. “Be happy that you are still young and innocent enough to shed tears in grief as well as in joy. Never let the horrors of life take that away from you.” Anakil felt the rough hand on his cheeks and forehead once more. “Go back to sleep. You are still burning up.”

He tried to respond, but his throat was dry, and no word would leave his lips. His nose was running, so he just sniffled and buried his face in Findar’s cloak for warmth and comfort.

“Were we ever this young?” he heard Mablung’s question.

“I remember it vaguely. Must have been a very long time ago!” Findar answered.

Perhaps the two Rangers talked more, but Anakil did not hear them as his mind fled into a dreamless sleep.

\-----

It was dark when he opened his eyes again. His mouth was dry, and he shivered slightly with cold. He turned his head, and in the pale light of the moon and a few stars he could see that he lay on a bed of fallen leaves, covered with a Ranger’s cloak. Findar was sleeping next to him, curled up in his own cloak, his bow close to his sleeping form. The murmur of flowing water reached his ear; they must have made camp close to a small river.

A few feet away a dark human shadow leaned against a tree, cloakless; Anakil knew it had to be Mablung on watch. “Aren’t you cold?” the boy whispered. His dry lips hurt with every word.

The shadow of Mablung’s head moved in the darkness. “I am warmer than you would be without the cloak, Troublemaker. Go back to sleep.”

“I don’t want to.” Anakil did not know where this thought came from, but it was the truth. He did not want to go back to sleep. It was a childish thing to say, but he did not care.

“Go back to sleep,” Mablung repeated. “Try to regain some strength. I will wake Findar in about an hour. We cannot risk lingering here much longer, we have to keep moving. Only two of us are able to fight, and we do not know whether the Orcs and Southrons have already established patrols in this part of the forest. We need to reach Henneth Annûn before first light.”

“I can walk now,” Anakil said.

Mablung chuckled softly. “The last time I looked, your feet were bloody and infected. Go back to sleep.”

“I don’t want to!”

“Listen to me, Troublemaker.” It was not an order. Mablung was considerate enough not to order the feverish boy around. “You survived a battle, you escaped from the enemy’s camp, and you reached us to warn us of the changed situation in Eastern Osgiliath. You have done enough, Anakil son of Anabar of the Anduin. Your duty is done, and done well. Let us do our duty now. Sleep.”

Even in his feverish state Anakil could understand those simple words. “Yes, Lieutenant.” He sighed.

Mablung ran his hand over his face. Anakil could see the faint gleam of grey eyes in the darkness. “You are a lucky little bastard.”

“You told me that before, Lieutenant. In Eastern Osgiliath.”

“Then it must be true. Now shut up.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Anakil closed his eyes and tried to think of Eastern Osgiliath as it had been just a few days before: His home in the army, the home of soldiers, boys, messengers, healers and horses, a place of hard work, but also a place he had considered safe. He hated this war that had destroyed it - just like that. His feverish mind could not find a reason for the destruction of lives, dreams and homes, and he was sure than even in a completely right state of mind, he still would not be able to come up with a plausible explanation for the events of the last 36 hours.

\-----

Findar’s large hand on his shoulder shook the boy awake. His eyes opened, and the hand moved from his shoulder to his mouth to prevent any sound he might be about to make. “Be quiet!” the Ranger hissed. “Don’t move until we are back!” Anakil nodded, and the hand disappeared from his face. He heard the rustle of leaves to his right. He was alone.

He was too confused to be afraid. The forest was silent. No wind moved the fallen leaves around him, he could just hear the soothing murmur of the small river in the distance. The moon hid behind a patch of clouds, and the few stars were not bright enough to bring light between the dark trees. He could hear his own breathing and the regular beating of his heart. Slowly he turned his head, but all he could see was darkness.

Then he heard it. There was movement in the underbrush. Something, someone, was walking through the forest in the darkness, and he was coming closer. Anakil sniffed the air, afraid that he might detect the foul smell of Orcs, but there was no wind to bring such a smell to his nose, and his nose was a little plugged up anyway. He hoped that Mablung and Findar were able to track and kill whoever was sneaking up on them in the darkness.

The sound was coming closer and growing louder, as if whoever was moving did not care to silence his steps. The boy was fully awake now, and fear started to fill his heart. He did not want to die, but neither was he afraid of death. He was afraid of dying alone. He had seen many deaths last night, terrible deaths, but at least those men had died together with their comrades, protecting their homes and their families.

The underbrush a few feet away from him moved slightly, and suddenly Mablung’s voice called from just behind him: “Don’t move. Identify yourself!”

Anakil winced, startled. He had not heard the Ranger positioning himself directly behind him.  
He heard the quiet hiss of an arrow coming from somewhere to his right, disappearing into the moving underbrush, but there was no cry of pain and surprise, so Findar must have missed.

The underbrush continued moving. They heard a quiet snort. It was not a human sound, and Anakil had never heard an Orc snort like that. It sounded more like a frightened horse.

“Hold your fire!” he heard came Mablung’s command close to his ear. “Cover me!”

The Ranger Lieutenant stepped out of the underbrush next to the boy and moved silently into the direction the snort had come from. Anakil could not see him, but he was sure Findar followed his Lieutenant’s every move with a readied bow.

There was another snort from the underbrush, then a short neigh, and Anakil’s heart stopped beating for a moment. He knew that sound, had spent so much time with this particular animal that he was completely sure of himself. He put two fingers into his mouth and uttered a low whistle.

Mablung turned around, startled by the unexpected noise, his nocked arrow pointed at Anakil’s heart. Before the Lieutenant could utter a word, a large, dark shadow appeared from the underbrush, and, happily snorting, made its way to the boy on the ground.

“Hold your fire – please!” Anakil whispered, suddenly afraid that one of the Rangers might shoot at his biggest, ugliest and oldest friend. Then the horse reached the boy and nuzzled his hair, still snorting happily. The boy lifted a trembling hand and stroked the long, disheveled mane. “Glaurung, you are nothing but big trouble, you know, old boy!?”

From the corner of his eye, Anakil saw Mablung slowly lowering his bow. Findar appeared to his right, his bow still ready in his hands. “A horse!” the Ranger whispered, disbelief in his voice. „Of all things that dwell in this forest, it has to be a horse.”

\-----

The Captain General stumbled over the form of address.

My Lord Steward… that did not sound right, not for a letter that would contain personal information as well.

My Lord Steward and beloved Father… that did not sound right either, not for a letter that would contain a detailed report of battle.

Dear Father… too short, too desperate, too much like a son who wanted his father to know that he was well. It did not sound like the way a soldier should begin a letter to his Lord and beloved father.

Boromir scratched at his itchy beard and resisted the urge to chew on the end of his quill. He was in plain view of the men of Osgiliath, Ithilien and those that had come from the White City to reinforce the decimated company, and they wanted to see their Captain confident, not chewing his quill in his search for the right words. They did not know that commanding a garrison or company consisted of more paperwork in a mere week than most of them would ever see in their entire life.

The Captain General and the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers sat across from each other at a small table, a vial of ink and a stack of parchment placed between them. It had been Faramir’s idea to place the writing table in front of Boromir’s tent, to show the men their Captains were working hard even when they were not moving about the garrison.

Boromir had walked among his men all morning, restoring order and distributing the reinforcements that slowly arrived from the White City. It tore at his heart to see the wagons and carts arrive from the White City, loaded with able bodied men of the City Guard, healers and much needed supplies. In the morning, Boromir had feared that the Lord Steward himself would arrive with the reinforcements, to inspect the remainder of his largest and strongest company, but he had not come, and even though the man Boromir would be happy to great his father, the Captain General was glad that the Steward had decided to remain in a place of relative safety.

The enemy, thankfully, had stayed on the eastern shore of the Anduin, strangely content with holding the eastern part of Osgiliath and the greatest part of the riverbank. The horror that had preceded their main host had passed to the west and had not returned, and the great army did not seem willing to follow it after the fall of the bridge. The guards at the river, mostly young men from the city with good and rested eyes, had reported that the enemy had not even begun to cut trees or build rafts for an attempt to cross the river. Boromir did not understand this idleness in his opponents, but he did not have the time to try to come up with a logical explanation.

The wagons that arrived from the city did not leave empty, but carried those wounded most likely to survive the trip to the houses of healing in the city, and there were so many of those that the carts had not yet started to bring home the dead. Few dead bodies had been recovered, most fallen had stayed behind on the eastern shore or had found their resting place on the bottom of the Anduin. Boromir had already instructed the few surviving cooks and the kitchen aides that had arrived from the city with the supplies to use only water from far upstream, to avoid sickness from the rotting bodies.

Communication was difficult throughout Western Osgiliath, for few horses had reached the western shore alive, and even fewer errand runners and messengers had survived to convey orders and messages. The oldest and most experienced men acted as leaders, for few officers left of Osgiliath remained, and even though Boromir’s list of recommendations for the empty commissions had left for the White City with the first available messenger, the Steward’s approval or rejection had not returned yet.

After establishing order in the shaken garrison and organizing a ring of guards and warriors in case the enemy made a sudden move, the Captain General could feel the pain in his knee even while sitting down. The healers would be cross that he had overtaxed himself, walking without the help of a stick most of the time, but he was confident that he could deal with an anxious or even infuriated healer.

Faramir’s quill scratched quietly on pieces of parchment, stopping only to be dipped into the vial of ink between them, and for a moment Boromir envied his brother’s ease with words and emotions. Faramir was most probably writing to the families of his fallen men, and he never even stopped to think about how to write those letters, while Boromir struggled with how to address their own father.

“Do you intend to inform father about our dream?” Faramir asked.

Boromir did not ask how his brother knew that the blank piece of parchment in front of him was destined to become a letter to their father. Somehow Faramir always knew. “I did not intend to bother him with this trivial matter just now,” he answered; although somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that this dream would prove to be far from trivial. There were so many riddles in the words he had heard, and if Faramir had heard them as well and could not understand their significance, only their father, more learned than anyone else in Gondor, could perhaps solve them. “Let us first come to terms with reality…” he waved his hand to indicate the busy garrison “…before we occupy our minds with riddles and dreams.”

Faramir stopped writing and raised his head. “Don’t you think it is worth mentioning when the two of us dream the same riddle in the same night? Maybe father will have an explanation where we fail to see a meaning.”

“Maybe he will,” Boromir answered. “But if so, he can enlighten us when the three of us talk face to face, over a good meal and an even better glass of wine.” He smiled while he said those words. It had been years since the Steward and his sons had sat down together to eat and talk in peace. Most of the time the two sons of the Steward had not been in the White City at the same time, and on the few occasions Faramir had been there, Steward and Ranger Captain had fought their personal war.

Faramir returned the smile, but his grey eyes were clouded. “That would be pleasant indeed.” Then the small smile vanished. “But you and I do not believe it will happen after…” he mimicked his brother’s gesture, indicating the whole garrison with a wave of his hand, “… after this.”

\-----

Anakil hugged the thick neck of the working horse with desperate arms, hiding his face in the long mane. The horse nuzzled his back, careful not to move the boy too much with his superior strength, for the animal seemed to sense that his young master was injured.

Mablung and Findar stepped closer, their bows lowered but their senses still alert. “I know this ugly beast,” Mablung said.

Anakil pulled away from the animal at those words, but he could not think of a way to defend his large friend. Glaurung was indeed an ugly beast.

“This is the horse you took to Ithilien on your first … adventure,... Troublemaker. It seems he and you developed the habit of turning up together in the most unexpected places.”

A small smile began on Anakil’s face, then he remembered when and how he had parted company with the horse, and his eyes searched the underbrush for movement immediately. “Poet?” he asked, raising his voice.

“Be quiet!” Findar admonished him. “We do not want to draw too much attention to ourselves.”

“But he has to be here somewhere,” Anakil explained. “The Poet. They left Eastern Osgiliath together. He must have left the riverbank for more cover in the woods. If this old boy made it so far, then the Poet must have made it, too. He is a messenger and a warrior as well; I saw him fight on the bridge, before I saw him fall. He wouldn’t fall into the hands of stinking Orcs.” Anakil realized he was not making much sense and stopped.

At Mablung’s nod, Findar disappeared into the underbrush, while the Ranger Lieutenant knelt down next to the boy. “Anakil. I know this old messenger everyone calls the Poet. From your words I guess he was in Eastern Osgiliath with you, and he left the enemy’s camp at the same time, riding this horse.“

Anakil nodded silently.

“The Poet is an experienced man. He would never have left either the clear path of the riverbank or his horse. I am sorry, Anakil, but I do not think Findar will find a trace of him in the woods around here. We are far away from the river.”

“But Glaurung…”

“… somehow found you,” Mablung interrupted. “And since we do not know if he unwittingly brought our presence here to the enemy’s attention, we have to leave immediately.”

Anakil did not want to accept the possibility that something had happened to the Poet. The old messenger was learned in the use of both the sword and words, no Southron and no Orc was clever or strong enough to best him. He had led them safely out of the enemy’s camp, and with Glaurung at his side, Anakil had been sure that nothing could possibly happen to him. But Glaurung was here now, alone. He had to stifle a sob. So many men had died in last night’s battle, and still the battle went on killing, long after it was over.

Mablung’s strong arms lifted the boy onto the horse’s broad back. Anakil’s bandaged feet throbbed with the movement, and there was cold sweat on his brow. He was thankful for the horse’s warmth between his legs and Mablung’s cloak over his shoulders.

“Hold on!” Mablung said. “We have to move fast now!”

Anakil nodded and rubbed at the shining path silent tears had cleansed on his dirty cheeks. “He was my…“ He stopped to search for the right word. The Poet had never had to search for the right word. He had respected the Poet; the old messenger had been his mentor, his guide in a suddenly confusing war. “He was my friend,” he finally said. “Even though I never learned his real name.”

“Things happen,” Mablung said gravely. “Now hold on and be quiet!”

The Ranger Lieutenant took the horse’s mane and led it into the underbrush. The horse shook his head, fighting against the stranger’s hand, but a slap and a word from the boy on his back made him obey. Findar joined them quietly a few minutes later, and the two Rangers, the boy and the horse hurried on their way to Henneth Annûn.

\-----

An Ithilien Ranger took some of the letters Faramir had written and mounted an old, bare backed horse. The animal looked too old to be on active duty, his eyes were dull, and patches of his mane were missing, but the Ranger Captain knew there were no better horses available. “Leave your mount on this side of the river, take the ferry and be careful. We do not know if Henneth Annûn is still safe. Do not use our usual paths.”

The Ranger nodded. “Yes, Captain. I will bring news of Mablung and Damrod soon.” He put the sealed messages for Cair Andros and Henneth Annûn into the pocket of his bloodstained cloak and nodded a salute at both Captains present. “Captain Boromir. Captain.” Then he cantered off, stirring the dust on the roads between Western Osgiliath’s ruins.

Faramir put his quill aside and shook his tired hand. “I am done for today,” he declared.

Boromir rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I am far from finished, but I could do with a break, a good meal and some wine.” He rose to his feet and flexed his stiff shoulders. His injured knee protested sharply. He ignored the pain, but when he took his first step away from the table, the knee supported him no longer, and his leg gave out from under him.

Faramir saw his brother sway and fight for balance and with two quick steps he had passed the table between them and caught the heavier man securely around the waist. “Boromir?” he asked, concerned.

Boromir took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes before he was able to answer. “It’s only the bad knee,” he said. “Don’t worry; it will be over in a moment.”

“It won’t be,” Faramir stated. “Not if you continue working as you did today.”

“But…,” Boromir started to argue.

“Enough!” Faramir said, and he himself was surprised at the sharpness in his voice. He shook his head at some men who had moved to help them, and the men stayed away. The Ranger Captain could deal with his stubborn brother alone. “You have done enough today, now you are going to rest.” Boromir wanted to protest, but he did not intend to start a fight with his brother in plain view of the garrison and therefore did not struggle as Faramir pulled one of his arms over his shoulder. “Lean on me!” the younger man ordered, and Boromir did as he was asked. Faramir’s arm around his waist guided the limping Captain General into his tent.

Faramir lowered his brother carefully onto his cot and gently but firmly made him lie down. His voice softened considerably as he said. “Lie still for a moment. I will go get a healer.”

Boromir popped himself on his elbows and shot an angry look at his brother, annoyed that he had to argue not only with an anxious healer about his injury, but with his brother as well. “Faramir, you do not have to coddle me. I refrained from arguing in front of the whole garrison for both our sakes, but now you will listen to me for a moment, and listen carefully. I…”

“Save your breath!” Faramir interrupted, his voice even sharper than before.

Living in the household of Denethor of Gondor had taught Faramir to be an expert at hiding his emotions. But once in a while, in the company of people he completely trusted, he allowed his temper to surface. Boromir had learnt to respect and sometimes dread his brother’s short and perfectly timed outbursts, but he knew that most of the time, when directed at him, they were well deserved.

“Boromir of Gondor, if there is one fault to be found in your character, it is your pride! You want to be the savior of Gondor, you want to personally slay every single foe, but I am sorry to tell you that you are only a man. You cannot save everyone, and you are not invulnerable. You are wounded, in body and in soul, and you need your rest.

“Boromir, son of Denethor, were you one of my men, I would call you a fool and leave you be. But you are not a simple soldier, you are the heir to the stewardship, and therefore your life does not belong only to you, it belongs to Gondor. Gondor will survive an evening without you, even a week or two, but it will be hard for all of us to be without our Captain General forever if you do – not – start – taking – care – of – your – health!” People had told Faramir that when he was angry, he had his father’s sharp tongue and hard eyes, and Faramir knew that they were right, that sometimes he was more like their father than he cared to admit. “You nearly collapsed out there, Boromir! You are injured, and there is no shame in resting to cure a wound. I know your wound does not bleed, but nevertheless it is a wound and needs time to heal. So do me the one small favor and stay in bed for the rest of the day!”

“Faramir…!”

“No, Boromir, this time I won’t give in.” Faramir pushed his brother’s shoulders down onto the mattress none too gently. “Rest! Listen to the healer’s advice. That’s all I ask of you!” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “I am angered by defeat, confused by strange dreams and restless in moments of idleness as well, brother,” he said, and the anger was gone from his voice. “But in those rare moments of idleness I remember a small number.” He held up four fingers. “ Four. Only four of us returned from the bridge. Four out of over five hundred. Gondor came so close to losing you that night, Boromir.” He bent down and pressed a kiss to Boromir’s forehead. “I came so close to losing you, brother.” Suddenly the young Ranger Captain looked exhausted and terribly old. “I won’t lose you to your own stubbornness. Please rest while I get a healer!” He straightened and left the tent.

Boromir sighed, moved by his brother’s heartfelt plea, and he stayed on the cot, motionless, until his brother returned, because in this moment of idleness he realized that, as usual, his brother was right.

\-----

He dreamt of the big house made of stone and wood near Cair Andros on the western shores of Anduin. He knew it was a simple place, but it was a good home for a family.

He dreamt of his father, a good farmer and horse breeder, and a good soldier until he lost one arm to the enemy.

He dreamt of their horses, good and loyal workers. The foals played on a meadow between the house and the river, and it was summer, time to break the three year old to the saddle. He missed the feel of warmth and soft hide between his legs, the confused neighs when he mounted an animal for the first time, the satisfaction when the young horse finally obeyed the command of his rider. He missed the hard work, the good meals and the happy laughter. He could not remember when he had last laughed out loud, and his memory had always been good.

He dreamt of his twin brothers and three sisters; soldiers, mothers and young women.

He dreamt of his mother, and for a moment he felt safe.

“Home!” he whispered, but even in his dream he knew that home was far away, out of his reach.

“Wake up, troublemaker!” Mablung’s voice roused him from his light slumber. “It’s time to part with this ugly friend of yours for now.”

Anakil opened his eyes and looked around. They were near Henneth Annûn, and the color of the sky indicated that it was shortly before first light. They had stopped at a small clearing framed by large, rough rocks. Two hooded Rangers had joined them, and Anakil was sure there were more hidden in the shadows around them. He remembered this place; Glaurung had been tethered here during their first visit to Ithilien.

One of the Rangers knotted a rope around the horse’s strong neck and fastened it securely between two rocks. “Stay and be good,” Anakil ordered hoarsely. The horse whickered in response. Mablung raised his arms, and Anakil did not protest but let the Lieutenant lift him from the horse’s back. Mablung cradled the thin boy to his chest as he would carry a small child, and slowly he made his way to the tunnel leading down to the cave that served as Captain Faramir’s headquarters in Ithilien.

When they entered the dark, slippery tunnel, Anakil allowed himself a relieved sigh. The longest night in his life was finally over, and he was still alive. He had survived his first battle during this terrible war. His feet hurt. His back was wet with cold sweat, and he knew he would never have made it here alone. “Thank you, Mablung!” he whispered.

Mablung just grunted, and Anakil got the impression that the Ranger did not know how to reply to the heartfelt thanks of a young men.

“Mablung,” he continued, just to break the uncomfortable silence. “What would you do if you could just go home? I mean, if the war was over and we had won. If we did not need so many soldiers any more. What would you do?”

It was too dark to see the Lieutenant’s face, but Anakil could feel him cock his head to one side in thought. “I would like to see the sea,” he finally answered. “The beach…the wind on my face…”

Then he was silent.


	24. Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)  
  
  
  
XXIII  
  
“Careful.”  
  
Henneth Annûn grew very quiet the minute Mablung set the boy down on a mattress and stepped back to make room for the healer. Every set of dark or grey eyes rested on the senior Lieutenant, as Lieutenant Damrod hurried up to him from the darkness of the cave and clasped his dirty hand in greeting. “Mablung. We have been worried about you!” he whispered. Louder he asked: „What news of the Captain? “  
  
Mablung clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from trembling. “Eastern Osgiliath has fallen,” he announced. He thought it best to speak the plain truth, for there were no words to soften the blow. “The bridge has been destroyed beyond repair.” It had been quiet before, but somehow every living being in the cave seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Mablung could hear the beat of his own heart loud as thunder in his ears. “The Captain and our fellow rangers fought together with the Osgiliath garrison to deny the enemy passage onto the plains of Gondor. We have no news of who survived the battle.” He took a deep breath and added, before the question could be asked. “I have no tidings about the Captain, good or ill.”  
  
The injured boy on the mattress moaned softly as the healer carefully removed the bloody bandages from his infected feet and cleaned the wounds with warm water. The quiet sound echoed in the large cave, sending shivers down Mablung’s spine. The men were silent, numbed by the terrible news.  
  
“We only know what young Anakil here was able to tell us. No official messenger has been able to reach us to give a more detailed account of the battle. We can only hope that the enemy were stopped before they could set foot on the western shore of Anduin,” he said.  
  
Even though he pressed his hand against his mouth to suppress any sound, a small moan again escaped Anakil’s lips. The healer dabbed an ointment made of herbs and some nasty-smelling oils on his wounds, and for a moment his feet were on fire. The healer cast him an apologetic look, and Anakil pressed his eyes shut to keep at bay the tears that threatened to spill over his dirty cheeks. He did not want to cry in front of the Rangers.  
  
“Do we know anything for sure?” Damrod asked, his voice a little shaken. “Is there anything we can do?”  
  
Mablung lowered his gaze, unable to meet his fellow Lieutenant’s desperate eyes.  
  
“I do not know, Damrod,” he said quietly. “Valar help me, I do not know.”  
  
“Do not try to go to Eastern Osgiliath,” Anakil whispered. “There are thousands of them. I have been there. I have seen them. They do not take prisoners. They kill every living being that is not like them.” He remembered what he had seen while the Poet had carried him through the lost garrison. “They even kill the boys. I have seen it. I have smelled it. It was terrible.”  
  
The healer finished bandaging his feet, while Mablung kneeled down next to him and put a soothing hand to his forehead, brushing away dirty and sweaty hair. “Rest,” he said. “You are injured and you have done enough. You can tell us everything you have seen and heard when you have had some hours of sleep.” The Lieutenant raised his eyes to look at his Rangers. “That is a piece of advice I give to all of you. Rest. There will be no scouting parties today. Until we know what has happened and what we have to do, we will stay close to the cave and guard the entrance with double watches. The enemy has made an important move. We will answer in kind. But we will not let our emotions rush our decisions. Eastern Osgiliath might have fallen, but Henneth Annûn is still strong. We will not lose Ithilien. Not now. Not ever.”  
  
A short defiant cheer erupted at his declaration.  
  
Anakil remembered the battle cries he had heard over and over again during the longest night of his life. “For Gondor!” he whispered, as he closed his eyes.  
  
“For Gondor!” he heard Mablung’s whispered answer, and the cool hand on his forehead tightened slightly. “For Gondor, whatever may be left of her.”  
  
\---  
  
Anakil’s fever escalated to an impressive level, but he slept through most of it. The healer woke him up in the middle of a meaningless but vivid dream to force some vile drink down his throat. Later, much later, he remembered a concerned voice telling him his fever was still raising, and that the foul smelling and tasting liquid was for his own good.  
  
Rough hands stripped him of his clothing and bathed his burning body with cold water. There was no pain as the bandages on his feet were changed. He felt strangely remote, unable to wake and appreciate his surroundings, unable to feel and think behind the hazy fog that had settled on his mind. He did not recognize the voices that were talking to him from time to time.  
  
Once he thought he could hear his mother calling out to him, but a part of him knew that she was not here, that she had died months ago, that he would not hear her voice again for a very long time. She was the lucky one, she would never encounter the terror that had passed him on the bridge, she would never again feel despair and desperation, she would never lose someone close to her, a friend, a comrade. She was lucky indeed; she had found a level of peace he was sure he would never find in this dark place.  
  
When he woke up, the cave was illuminated by only a few torches. The opening to the waterfall was shrouded in complete darkness. He realized that it must be the middle of the night, for the Rangers were sleeping on their mattresses on the floor and no one was moving about. He turned his head and saw Lieutenant Mablung sitting next to him, his head tilted to one side, his eyes closed. A soft snore emanated from his open mouth, and his rugged features appeared more relaxed than Anakil had ever seen them.  
  
Anakil slowly raised one hand and rubbed at his sweaty face. He felt weak and filthy, and the heavy blankets the Rangers had draped over his naked body were making his skin itch. He rubbed his face again und pushed oily hair away from his forehead, careful not to move his bandaged feet. He was in no pain, and did not want to change anything about that. His tongue was dry and foul tasting. He was thirsty.  
  
Lieutenant Mablung seemed to sense his movements. His snoring stopped, his dark eyes opened and he simply gazed at the boy, wide awake at once. “You scared us, Troublemaker,” he whispered. “For a moment I thought you would succumb to fever and exhaustion.” The Lieutenant held a cup of water to his lips, and the boy drank greedily.  
  
“Thank you.” Anakil managed a smile. His voice was hoarse and weak. „It’s not that easy to get rid of me, my Lord.”  
  
Mablung noticed the provoking address, but he simply returned the smile and nodded his head. „I can see that. You look a lot better than you did a few hours ago. Do you want me to wake the healer?”  
  
Anakil shook his head. “There is no need.” He wanted to assure the Lieutenant that he would be all right, but the words somehow did not want to leave his lips. Would he ever be alright again after the events of the previous days? Could he look at the river without seeing the dead and the dying? Could he walk on his feet without remembering the pain? Could he cross a bridge without hearing heavy stones collapsing around him? Could he read a book without hearing the Poet’s voice? “How long have I been asleep?”  
  
“You have battled with fever for 18 hours,” Mablung told him. “The fever broke a few hours ago. I guess you have been asleep since then.”  
  
“Eighteen hours?” Anakil asked, shocked. “Then it is not tonight but tomorrow night?”  
  
Mablung chuckled softly, a rich rumbling sound that seemed to emerge from deep inside his chest. “A strange way to think, but from your point of view, I guess you are right.”  
  
Anakil rubbed his face again. “What did I miss?” Suddenly he remembered something. “Where are my clothes?” he asked.  
  
“We had to strip you naked to bath you and cool you down.”  
  
“I just need my breeches,” Anakil said. “I don’t want to pull them on, I just want to know they are safe.”  
  
Mablung shot him a curious look. “Why?”  
  
“There is something very important in my pocket,” Anakil explained. “Something that does not belong to me. I have to give it back.”  
  
Mablung looked at the boy with an almost sad expression. “Don’t let yourself be troubled by borrowed things. From what you have told me of the battle, you cannot be sure the man who lent it to you is still alive.”  
  
“I hope he is alive, for Gondor would mourn his loss greatly,” Anakil sighed.  
  
Mablung raised an eyebrow.  
  
“The thing in my pocket belongs to the Captain General,” he explained.  
  
\---  
  
There were a few battles he knew he would always win, and arguing with his brother was one of them. Boromir had settled to an, in both their opinions, acceptable truce and had let the healer bandage his bad knee tightly. He had agreed to using a stick when walking more than a few steps, and under the watchful gaze of some carefully-placed Rangers, he stayed at the desk in front of his tent to command his garrison from there.  
  
Faramir took upon himself the tasks of seeing to the wounded and dying and distributing reinforcements and supplies from the White City.  
  
The boys arrived first.  
  
There were about twenty of them, none looked to be older the fourteen. They were let by a slightly older boy, maybe seventeen years of age, who had already reached the height of a man, but who hat yet to grow into his manly frame and consisted of knees and elbows and very little else.  
  
Children were fighting this war!  
  
Faramir watched from afar as Boromir put away his quill and papers and rose stiffly when one of the Rangers presented the frightened lot to him. The boys looked out of place and confused, and even the oldest one did not summon up the courage to look the Captain General in the eye.  
  
“Welcome to Osgiliath,” Boromir said gently, and the boys shuffled their feet at his words, scared to death that the Captain General of Gondor was talking to them. “Where is you Lieutenant?”  
  
“My Lord, we have been sent here alone, with the horses and the bread,” the oldest boy said, staring at Boromir’s dusty boots. “I am the oldest, so they listen to me, but we do not have a Lieutenant, my Lord. He stayed in the city with the remaining boys, my Lord.”  
  
“Has one of you been in Osgiliath before?” They needed the boys everywhere, for they had lost most of their own during the retreat over the bridge. There was nobody to help with the few remaining horses, the too-many wounded, the food and drink. There were no fast and busy feet to run about and relay messages and orders. Nobody had ever noticed the boys before, but now their absence war acutely felt.  
  
The oldest boy shook his head. “We all hail from Minas Tirith, my Lord. But we are quick learners. One or two of your boys or your Lieutenant can show us around.”  
  
“I am sorry to say that the Lieutenant is missing and presumed dead, and most of the boys are unaccounted for as well,” Boromir told him.  
  
The boy looked at the Captain General at those words, his gaze full of shock. “They are all dead, my Lord?” he asked, and his breaking voice was barely audible.  
  
“I am afraid that is the case.” They had lost so many, but they had also gained much. The enemy had not been able to reach the western shore of Anduin, so the many sacrifices had not been in vain.  
  
The moment Boromir reached for his stick, looking glad to have an excuse to leave the paperwork behind for a few minutes, Faramir left his observer’s position and slowly started moving towards his brother’s tent. His brother had never been a patient man, and even the Captain General needed to be protected sometimes, mostly from his own carelessness.  
  
“Since we have a certain lack of officers at the moment, I will show you the healers’ tents and the stables, where I am sure you can be of great help,” Boromir said.  
  
The oldest boy lowered his gaze again. “An honour, my Lord,” he stammered.  
  
“With your permission, Captain, I will show the boys around,” Faramir interrupted.  
  
Boromir sighed. Obviously he had not noticed his brother standing nearby and had not heard him approaching. He turned around to meet Faramir’s concerned grey eyes, and his lips mouthed the silence words: I am fine!  
  
You are not! Faramir’s gaze answered, as he almost accusingly looked at the stick Boromir had to lean on. “There are a few boys at the healers’ tents. They can introduce our new boys to their new duties.” Boromir lowered his head in an almost imperceptible nod, and Faramir knew he had won, at least for now. He let his eyes stray to the paperwork on Boromir’s desk, and Boromir sighed again. Had they both been healthy and out and about, it would have been Faramir who would gladly have taken over the administrative duties, while Boromir showed resence among the men.  
  
Boromir sat down again and put his stick away. “Thank you, Captain,” he simply said, but his gaze told his brother they would talk later.  
  
“Captain!” Faramir bowed his head and mentioned the boys to follow him.  
  
The oldest boy fell into step beside him, obviously glad to put some distance between the Captain General and himself.  
  
Faramir guessed the boy’s thoughts and chuckled softly. “He is not as frightening as he appears sometimes,” he said.  
  
The boy shrugged. His clear grey eyes were wide, as Faramir led him and his comrades through what was left of Osgiliath. Order hat returned, and those lucky men that had remained in fighting condition were practicing their swordplay among the ruins of the ancient city. The sound of steel meeting steel could be heard everywhere.  
  
Otherwise, the city was silent. There were no horses, no boys running about, no officers shouting orders, no men off duty relishing the midday sun. A strange quiet lay over the garrison, an air that most people associated with graveyards. The dead were buried, but the loss of so many souls still weighed heavy on everyone’s heart. Grieve could be felt in the light breeze that rippled the banners someone had erected at the top of a fallen tower.  
  
“What is your name?” Faramir inquired softly.  
  
„Huanor, Captain,” the boy answered.  
  
“Well, Huanor, I am sure you are confused that everything is so silent around here. The White City is always so full of life.”  
  
The boy nodded. “Yes, Captain. I had expected Osgiliath to be – different,” he confessed.  
  
“It will be different, in a while,” Faramir said. “I am sure you and your boys have never seen battle, and hopefully there will not be another battle for quite some time. You have joined us at a very bad stretch. We have lost much and many in those last days. But not everything is lost. Your presence here shows us that Gondor is still strong, and that there are many things worth fighting for.”  
  
“Yes, Captain,” the boy said, even though it was clear that he did not understand.  
  
Faramir nodded at every single man they passed on their way through the ruins. Some of them would be officers of the realm in less than twelve hours, even though most of them did not yet know about their upcoming promotion. There was no better time than wartime for a quick career in the army. The Steward had approved Boromir’s recommendations, and there would be a small and quiet ceremony after supper.  
  
“How is the City?” he asked. “I have not been there for quite some time.”  
  
Huanor thought about the question for a moment. “It is summer,” he answered. “And it his hot in the streets. But nevertheless there is laughter everywhere. The City is never quiet. The laughter stopped when the news came that the bridge was lost, but it started again when it was clear that Minas Tirith and the Captain General were safe.” He hesitated. “Now that I have seen him, I understand why the people love him so much.”  
  
They reached the healers’ tents. Some of the wounded had found a place to rest in front of the many canvas structures, and there were two young boys tending to them. Faramir did not see a healer around, all of them seemed to be busy inside the tents. He did not want to disturb them, so he mentioned one of the only slightly less busy boys to come over for a moment.  
  
“Captain?” the boy said, out of breath.  
  
“This is Huanor and his comrades from the city,” Faramir introduced the boys. “They have been sent here to help. Show them around and give them something to do. If there should be something amiss, report direct to me.”  
  
“Yes, Captain!” The boy nodded. „Come on, Huanor and company, there is more than enough work for all of us.” The boy smiled and showed his bloody hands. “Dirty work, mostly.”  
  
Huanor followed the younger boy, and even though the Captain was still well within hearing range, he pointed at Faramir and asked: “I like that one. He is much nicer than our Lieutenant in the city. What is his name? He did not care to introduce himself.”  
  
“That’s Captain Faramir of Ithilien,” the boy answered and raised his hands in mock despair. “Do you spoiled boys from the City not know anything at all?”  
  
Faramir chuckled and returned to his brother’s tent to get some paperwork done.  
  
\---  
  
“Father asks me to return to the City as soon as I am able,” Boromir said, as the two Captains shared a glass of wine in the Captain General’s tent in the early evening “He asks for your presence in Council as well.”  
  
Faramir closed his eyes and sighed. He would never lie to Boromir, he would not even try to hide his discomfort. “To welcome me home or to blame me?” he murmured.  
  
Boromir knew that the two men he loved above all else had never been at ease dealing with each other. He put their father’s letter aside and lay a heavy hand on his brother’s arm. “If someone is to blame for what happened, that someone is me,” he said. “Osgiliath is my command. Without you and your Rangers, we would have lost the West Bank as well.”  
  
Faramir sighed again. “It’s been years since we have talked. It’s been even longer since we have not raised our voices,” he said. “I have tried, Valar, I have tried hard to hold Ithilien.”  
  
“Nobody could have done it better than you. Your dirty band of Rangers is still strong.” Boromir smiled. “That Lieutenant of yours, that one with the wavy hair, what is his name…?”  
  
“Mablung,” Faramir said.  
  
“Right, Mablung. He lost a toe in the fight that drove him and his patrol here a few weeks ago. He is a force of nature all by himself, always shouting and cursing, but the men love him fiercely.”  
  
“He is a good man,” Faramir said simply.  
  
“Yes, he is that. And this Mablung, he has the worst singing voice, but no one seems to care. I swear to you, I have never heard a soldier who could not carry even a simple tune, but when he started singing at the fire in the evening, and he likes to sing too, the whole garrison joined him.”  
  
“I know. He has a rather gruff exterior, but he always cheers us up during the cold winter nights in the cave.” Faramir took a sip of his wine. “I would never repeat his jokes and stories when a woman is present, but they sure are funny. I hope he and the men are all right.”  
  
“And this man, and all other Rangers of Ithilien, they would lay down their life for you, not because you are their Captain, but because they love you. So I guess you must have done something right.” Boromir pressed his brother’s arm again. “Father asks for your presence, he does not command it.”  
  
“You know he does not have to.”  
  
“Stop brooding,” Boromir said, suddenly stern. “I have not seen you smile almost all afternoon. Do not think too much about things none of us can change.”  
  
Faramir rubbed his face with both hands. “The boys that arrived today, they are so innocent. They did not even know the meaning of silence and grief.”  
  
“Those boys I was not allowed to escort to the healers’ tents?” Boromir said, accusation in his voice.  
  
“You are injured,” Faramir answered. “Your knee needs rest.”  
  
“I know.” Boromir sighed. He clenched his fist. „How I despise being wounded!”  
  
“It will heal. You will be able to ride to Minas Tirith in a few days, if you do not exert yourself too much.”  
  
“I have to announce the promotions this evening, and I have to do it standing and walking!”  
  
“You do not have to,” Faramir protested. “But I know you can not be persuaded to sit down during this event. So all I ask for is that I am allowed to stand behind you.” A small smile grazed his lips. “To catch you, should you stumble and fall.”  
  
Boromir raised his glass. “I promise you, I will not fall and crush you, but you may stand behind or beside me nevertheless. Just in case.”  
  
The brothers clinked glasses. „Just in case,” Faramir repeated.  
  
\---  
  
“Anakil!” The whispered word raised him from a deep slumber. “Anakil, wake up?”  
  
“It can’t be morning yet!” the boy grunted and snuggled deeper into his blanket.  
  
“Anakil, I know you are exhausted and most probably want to sleep for days, but you have to wake up and listen to me. It’s important, lad!”  
  
Anakil slowly opened one eye and was startled to see Mablung’s grim face only inches away. “I’m awake,” he murmured. “What has happened?”  
  
Mablung snorted. “That horse of yours, that’s what happened.”  
  
“Glaurung?”  
  
“A dragon’s name.” Mablung snorted again. „A fitting name for the ugly beast.”  
  
Anakil raised himself into a sitting position. After a sponge bath and a hearty meal he felt almost human again. His bandaged feet hurt, but the pain was bearable, and the fever had not returned.  
  
“That animal has to disappear,” Mablung said grimly. “Either we kill it and dispose of the body somewhere far away in the woods, or it has to leave the proximity of Henneth Annûn immediately.”  
  
“Why?” Anakil asked, fear in his voice. Glaurung was he good horse, he did not deserve to be slain.  
  
“Orcs,” Mablung explained. “Lots of Orcs. They might smell his scent. It is too dangerous to keep him anyhere near here.”  
  
Anakil untangled himself from his blanket and reached fort the old boots the healer had given him. “I will send him away,” he said. “He listens to me.”  
  
Mablung briskly shook his head. “Too risky. You sent him away before. I was told he returned.”  
  
“He will obey this time!” Cold fear creped into Anakil’s heart. This horse had been at his side for years, almost his entire life. It had been his companion at his father’s farm, and it had reminded him of home, of what all of them were fighting for, when he had joined the Osgiliath garrison. “I will not let you kill him.”  
  
Mablung chuckled softly. „And how, precisely, will you accomplish that, Troublemaker?” he asked.  
  
“I don’t know.” Anakil did not lower his gaze. „What do you want me to do? You did not wake me to tell me I can not prevent you from killing my horse.”  
  
“You are quite right.” Mablung rose to his feet, towing over the boy in the darkness of the cave. “The only way we can keep that horse alive is to make sure it stays away from here. That means you have to leave together.”  
  
Anakil rubbed his tired eyes. “You are sending me away?”  
  
Mablung shook his head. “No, I am asking you for your service as a messenger of Gondor.” The tall man knelt down next to the boy and pushed unruly, wavy hair out of his weary face. “I know you are injured and weak. I would never even think about it if there was someone else I could send. But this horse listens only to you, and even if that was not the case, until the Captain returns I cannot spare a single man. Tell me, honestly, how much trouble are your wounds causing you?”  
  
Anakil looked down at his bandaged feet. “I cannot walk well, but I can ride,” he said.  
  
“How far?” Mablung inquired.  
  
“As far as I have to,” Anakil said, and his voice was more confident than he felt himself to be. He was weak, his fever had only recently broken, and every step pained him greatly. But he was certain Mablung would kill his horse if he was unable to leave on its back, and that price was too high to pay. He could deal with the pain of his wounds, but he could not deal with the thought of cold steel ending Glaurung’s life.  
  
Mablung studied the boy’s face for a long moment. Anakil did not avert his gaze. He seemed to be content with what he saw, for suddenly Mablung ruffled the boy’s short hair in a rough gesture of affection. “You have to leave within the next hour.”  
  
“As you command, my Lord.” Anakil slowly rose to his feet, careful to walk on tiptoes, for that was the only way the pain was bearable. He had to concentrate to keep the agony out of his eyes as he gathered his clothes and boots and got dressed. There was still dried blood on his messenger’s shirt, but he did not care.  
  
When he was ready, Mablung handed him two sealed envelopes. Anakil took a look at the name and the seals and safely stored the precious slips of paper in his shirt’s pocket.  
  
“These messages are for Captain Faramir’s eyes alone. Should the worst has come to pass and he has died at Osgiliath, present the missives to Captain Boromir instead.”  
  
Anakil pressed his lips into a thin line, but he had to ask. Both Captain’s had been on the bridge shortly prior the structure had collapsed. He reached into his pocket, and his fingers touched the seal of Osgiliath he had taken before burning down the Captain General’s tent. “And if Captain Boromir is also … among the dead?”  
  
“Then those will have to go directly to the Steward,” Mablung said grimly.  
  
“I will guard your words with my life!” the boy said.  
  
“I would expect nothing less of a messenger of Gondor.” Mablung managed a small smile. “You have to leave, Troublemaker. The orcs are quite close, but I am sure you will find a safe way to the river.”  
  
Anakil followed the Lieutenant out of the cave. They stopped at the waterfall, and Anakil filled a water skin Mablung had given him. It was a clear night. The pale light of the moon was reflected in the curtain of droplets. It was very quiet. The Rangers were asleep in the cave. Mablung carried a torch, and its soft flicker cast long shadows on the stony ground. It was almost peaceful, but both the Ranger Lieutenant and the boy knew that the peace of Ithilien was a lie.  
  
“Goodby!” Anakil murmured.  
  
Lieutenant Mablung let him through the tunnel into the open, where Lieutenant Damrod was waiting in a small clearing with the horse. There was no one else to be seen, but Anakil was sure there were many guards hidden in the underbrush. The Rangers had knotted a rope around the horse’s head to serve as bridle, apart from that, the animal was bare of tack. The brown beast snickered softly as it set its eyes on its young master, but Damrod did not let it step towards the entrance of the cave.  
  
Anakil caressed the ugly head as soon as the animal was within reach, and the horse rubbed his nose against the boy’s pockets in search for something edible. Anakil laughed softly. “I’m sorry, old boy, no apples today!”  
  
The horse snorted in disappointment.  
  
Damrod handed the boy the makeshift reins and reached for his hand. “Good luck, Anakil of the Anduin,” he said, as Anakil’s small hand almost disappeared in his big, callused fist. “Give my greeting to the Captain!” The Lieutenant smiled faintly, and then he disappeared in the dark tunnel.  
  
Mablung hoisted the boy on the horse’s back. “Ride hard, as long as you are able. Do not look back. Make for the river. Cair Andros in not far to the north. I know your wounds still trouble you greatly, but do not rest until you have reached the garrison. These woods are infested with orcs.”  
  
“I will not disappoint you, Lieutenant,” Anakil promised. He was suddenly aware of the fact that he was not armed. He did not even carry a knife. But he did not need a weapon, for if he stumbled upon orcs, he would die, plain and simple. In his present state, he was not able do defend himself, weapon or no.  
  
Mablung put a heavy hand on the boy’s knee. “I would never send a wounded boy away, but desperate times call for desperate measures,” he said sadly. “Now get going!”  
  
Anakil proudly raised his head. “Do not forget, my Lord, that I am no longer a boy. I am a messenger of Gondor, and I will do my duty!” He spoke a soft command to the horse, and the big animal with its slender rider disappeared into the underbrush at a brisk walk.  
  
“I told you before; do not call me ‘my Lord’! Stay out of trouble, Troublemaker!” Mablung called after him, and even though the boy pretended to be out of earshot, the Lieutenant was sure he had been heard.  
  
\---  
  
Twilight had fallen over Western Osgiliath, and very soon the garrison would be shrouded in complete darkness. A great campfire had been lit in front of the Captain General’s tent, and his desk and papers had been put away. The garrison had gathered for the first time since the shadow had passed them and the bridge had fallen, all except those on guard duty and those too injured to rise. Even though it was an assembly of several hundred men and boys, there was complete silence. No whispered words were exchanged, no jokes passed through the ranks, no one even dared to shuffle his feet. They all remembered those that could not be here today, that had found wet or earthy graves.  
  
The Captain General had asked them to assemble so he could speak to them. All of them knew what he was about to announce. The news that the messenger from the White City had returned with many dispatches singed by the Steward himself had travelled through the garrison like raging fire. Common men would be promoted to officers this evening, men who had proven their valour to the Captain General not just in the last battle, but in their long and faithful service to Gondor. Men who had survived the horror with their bodies and minds intact.  
  
Captain Faramir stepped out of the Captain General’s tent a step behind Captain Boromir. The Captain General was limping slightly, but even though his breaches were patched and he wore a borrowed cloak, in the flickering light of the campfire his bearded face did not show the strain of the last few days. His grey eyes moved about his assembled men with pride, and his right hand loosely grasped the hilt of the gleaming sword at his hip. He resembled the kings of old, tall, fair and strong.  
  
Captain Faramir stayed a step behind as the Captain General took position in front of the flickering fire, and both Captains clasped their hands behind their backs. “Men of Gondor!” the Captain Generals resonant, clear voice rang out across the garrison. “We have gathered here today to remember those whose commands we will never again hear on the battlefield, and whose wisdom will never again enlighten our councils.  
  
In fighting for Gondor, all of us have begun a difficult and uncertain journey, and none of us can see its end. But our cause is a just one, an honourable one. That truth honours our fallen comrades and leaders, who made the ultimate sacrifice, so that we might carry on the hard work that is ahead of us. We might take comfort in the knowledge that Gondor is strong and safe. We are gathered here today, to honour their memory, and their names.”  
  
“Anarion of Minas Tirith, Lieutenant,” Faramir called out.  
“Darin of the Mountains, Lieutenant.  
Mangor of Lossernach, Captain.  
Tudor of the Anduin, Lieutenant…”  
  
The list was long, and even though he had not known all of them in person, Faramir could easily remember their names.  
  
When his brother was finished, Boromir turned his head to the west, towards the city of Minas Tirith, his home. “We battle in the east, but hope lies in the west. The White City of Númenor stands strong as ever. The west has not failed and will never fail. We have lost so much, but there are many good men who will fill the empty places. We will continue with our strength renewed, though we will never forget those who walked the dangerous paths before us.”  
  
He called out the name of those the Steward had appointed to fill the empty commissions. The men stepped forwards, one by one, and knelt before their Captain General with their swords laid out before them. One by one they repeated the vow of service that they had sworn to the Steward on the day they had taken up arms for Gondor, and that they now spoke to the Steward’s heir again to take up their duty as officers of the realm.  
  
Boromir, Captain General of Gondor, accepted their swords in the Steward’s name, and Faramir had to suppress a shudder at hearing his brother intone the words that usually were his father’s alone.  
  
“And this I do hear, Boromir son of Denethor, Captain General of Gondor, Warden of the White Tower, heir to the Stewardship, in the name of the Lord Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance.”  
  
The officers of the realm picked up their swords und put them away.  
  
Seek for the sword that was broken  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsel taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur’s bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand.  
  
The words of their shared dream came back to Faramir’s mind, stinging like an infected wound, and this time he shivered slightly. But all eyes were on Boromir, and therefore nobody noticed his discomfort.  
  
The Captain General had put his weight on his good leg, and Faramir could see that the wounded knee was causing him considerable pain. Boromir was speaking his customary closing words, but Faramir knew he was the only one to hear the strain in his brother’s strong voice.  
  
“May the Valar always stand between you and harm, in all the dark and dangerous places a soldier must walk!”


	25. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to take a look at life in Gondor's army prior to the War of the Ring? This story explores Henneth Annun, Osgiliath and Minas Tirith (soon), concentrating on boys, messengers, Rangers and soldiers as well as Captains Boromir and Faramir.

“For in the sixth circle, outside the walls of the citadel, there were some fair stables where a few swift horses were kept, hard by the lodging of the errand riders of the Lord, messengers always ready to go at the urging of Denethor or his chief captains. But now all the horses and riders were out and away.”(Return of the King, Minas Tirith)  
  
  
  
XXIV  
  
He realized he could not whistle.  
  
When he had been a boy working on his father’s land, whenever he had had to ride longer than a mile in pleasant weather, he had started to whistle. Most of the time, he had not whistled a song, he had just made up a tune that came to his mind, wordless, happy or sad, according to his present state of mind. The horses had liked his quiet tunes, and thinking of a way to continue the melody or even repeat it, if he liked the sound, helped pass the time.  
  
Anakil wanted to whistle now, neither loud nor happy, just very quiet, to pass the time, to calm down his horse and himself, and to pretend he was on a simple errand his father had sent him, like watering the horses and checking on a pregnant mare.  
  
But his lips and breath were unable to produce the sounds. Ithilien was not quiet, even though he was too far away from the river to hear the sounds of flowing water. The trees seemed to talk in their own strange language, those animals that still lived east of the river were sometimes audible in the underbrush, and the warm wind ruffled the green leaves above him. There had not been rain for over a week, the soil was dry, and the horse’s heavy hooves stirred great clouds of dust. Dawn came slowly, for today there was no sun visible in the cloudy sky.  
  
His bandaged feet throbbed with every movement, but the pain was bearable. The sky was partly cloudy, and the boy was grateful for the warmth of the horse between his legs. The big animal moved at a brisk walk without being urged to do so, it seemed to understand that they did not have time to dawdle. Its big, hairy ears were perched forwards, the tips almost meeting above its broad forehead. Anakil patted the strong neck from time to time, to reward the horse for its loyalty and quiet understanding. Glaurung might be ugly, but he was more clever and reliable than the average working horse.  
  
Suddenly, without warning, the horse stopped moving. Anakil had to steady himself with both hands in the thick mane to stay mounted. He had been lost in thought, trusting the horse to find the way. “What is it?” he asked quietly.  
  
The horse tilted its head to one side, its nostrils sucking in the air. It exhaled with a long snort and shook its wild mane.  
  
“You smell something, do you?” Anakil asked gently. “Show me.” Had he been able to, he would have dismounted and checked the underbrush before continuing on horseback, but he doubted he could creep about quietly with his injured feet. He pressed his heels softly in the horse’s sides, and the animal started moving again. Its ears were dancing now, back and forth, its head was moving restlessly from side to side. Anakil gently patted the strong neck, one hand securely fastened in the thick mane to be able to stay mounted if they had to turn about and flee.  
  
Then the boy smelled it too. A few days ago, he would not have been able to place that smell, but he had fought in a great battle und had walked Eastern Osgiliath after the Orcs and Southrons had defiled the great city of men. By now he knew the stench of death and decay.  
  
The horse stopped, snorting softly, and Anakil did not force it to continue. “It’s alright, old boy,” he whispered. “I can smell it. We can only hope it is a dead animal.”  
  
The horse stood very still, and the boy slowly dismounted. “You can stay here, if you like,” he told the animal. “I am going to take a look.” He let go of the rope that served as reins and limped forwards, carefully avoiding dry branches that would break under his weight and make unnecessary noise. His feet did hurt badly, but he did not care. The horse followed him, unwilling to get closer to the stench, but also unwilling to part with its young master. Its big ears were pressed flat against his head, and its teeth were bared.  
  
Anakil did not have to go far to reach the source of the vile smell. In a small clearing in the underbrush lay a dead horse. It had obviously been dead for some time, for it had started to decay, and there were many flies and other airborne insects buzzing around his carcass. The grass of the clearing was trampled down, and there was blood everywhere, turned black by time and the merciless sun.  
  
Anakil pressed one of his sleeves over his mouth and nose and stepped closer. His horse remained at the edge of the clearing, not willing to follow its young master any further. The flies buzzed about wildly, disturbed and excited by the presence of living and breathing beings. Anakil could discern that several pieces of the dead horse’s flesh were missing, and that there was a deep wound in its chest. Orcs must have slain the animal, and they had feasted on its flesh afterwards. The boy fought the urge to retch and pressed his sleeve firmly to his face. The dead animal had not been relieved of bridle and saddle, another sign that it had fallen prey to hungry Orcs. Orcs did not ride and therefore had no need for those things. Through the cloud of flies, the boy discovered the White Tree of Gondor stitched on the horse’s saddle, and suddenly he understood that this had to be one of the horses of Osgiliath. The Captain General had send messengers to all garrisons during and after the battle for the bridge.  
  
A lump rose in Anakil’s throat. The Ranger of Henneth Annûn had not heard tidings of the battle; no messenger had reached them in those last days. The boy tore his gaze away from the dead horse. There was another cloud of flies in the underbrush. Reluctantly he walked towards it, pressing his sleeve over mouth and nose with one hand until it hurt, while the other hand tried to scare away the insects.  
  
A human form lay in the underbrush, twisted and covered in black blood. He was dressed in breeches and a messenger’s shirt like the one Anakil wore. His chest was pierced by three arrows, and one of his arms was missing. Anakil did not look closer to discover whether he had lost the limb in his last fight with the enemy, or whether the Orcs had feasted on his flesh as well.  
  
Careful, with his head bowed low and almost retching despite the cloth over his mouth and nose, he knelt down next to the dead body and searched through the pockets of the messenger’s shirt. The dead man’s head was covered in black blood and the face was turned away from him, he was not able to recognize the poor soul that had died in the line of duty.  
  
In a small and hidden pocket next to the dead man’s heart he found a crumbled piece of paper with a handwriting the Poet had taught him to recognize. It belonged to Captain Faramir. Slowly he put the message in his pocket und rose to his feet.  
  
“What do we do now, old boy?” he asked his horse, and his voice was barely louder than a whisper. “Captain Mablung told us to ride hard and to do not rest until we reached the safety of Cair Andros, but we cannot let him lay here, to be defiled by animals and Orcs.”  
  
The horse snorted, restless, but it did not approach its young master.  
  
“You are right, old boy, but leaving him here would make us as fouls as Orcs, wouldn’t it? He was a soldier of Gondor, and he deserves at least a sheltered grave in this forsaken country. Only Orcs leave their dead behind or do worse.” He retched at the thought. “Besides, we have not encountered Orcs for hours, and it is morning already.”  
  
The horse shook its ugly head and snorted again.  
  
“Yes, I am sure.” Anakil rose to his feet again, and a moan of pain escaped his lips. His feet were on fire, and he drove his teeth in his lower lip to suppress a cry. His eyes were watering. “Many healers tell you pain is a good sign,” he told his horse. “It tells you that you are still alive.” He bent down to collect stones, for he did not have the tools to dig a grave in the hard and dry underground.  
  
It was a tiresome and difficult task to walk about in search for enough stones to cover the dead messenger’s body. During his search he found the man’s dagger and put it into his belt. He still was not in the condition to fight, but at least he was armed again. It was a small comfort to think that he was at least able to defend himself against smaller animals, should the need arise.  
  
Many men had found their deaths in Ithilien and Osgiliath during the last week, and the boy could not prevent thinking at length about those he had known.  
  
There was Irion, not older than Anakil himself, whose life had been cut short by a single arrow.  
  
Stern Lieutenant Darin, who had told him of his home and his sons in the mountains, who had defended the boys that had hated and feared him with his life.  
  
Friendly Beldil, who had remained on the bridge, wounded and unable to fight, and who could not have survived its downfall.  
  
The Poet, whose name none knew, who had survived the fall of the bridge, and who had let the two of them through the camp of the enemy. Glaurung had returned without him. The woods of Ithilien were dangerous, even for an experienced warrior and messenger as the Poet. It had taken a single arrow to kill Irion, it would take only a single arrow to kill someone like the Poet. Anakil was sure he would never see his mentor again, and the boy also doubted the old messenger would ever receive the burial he deserved.  
  
Tears came to his eyes, and he did not stop them. Tears of physical pain and of great sorrow. He could taste them on his lips, and his nose was blocked. Nevertheless he laboured on, and his thoughts continued to stray.  
  
Both Captains had been on the bridge when it finally fell, he had heard their voices, calm and fearless. He had not heard them again in the water. They were men of the city, and he did not know whether the men of the city, even the Lords and their sons, learned how to swim properly. The Poet had not been able to swim. He wept for all of them, for the Poet and for the Captains, without whom Gondor would never be as it had been.  
  
At last, and even though he did not want to, he thought of his brothers. Anarion and Anagor, tall and strong and fair. They had fought as well, and he had not seen or heard them, neither on the bridge nor on the shore. Maybe he had overlooked their dead bodies in Eastern Osgiliath, maybe they had fallen into a wet grave, a fitting grave for the sons of the Anduin. Maybe, if they had been very lucky, they had survived the battle and continued fighting, because they were tall and strong, they were soldiers of Gondor. But he wept for them, for many men had lost their lives, and it was likely they were among them.  
  
He put the last stone on the messenger’s grave and sank to his knees, weary beyond words. The pain in his feet had become a dull throbbing a long time ago. His hands were dirty from picking up and carrying stones and his nose was still running. His tears had cleared glistening paths on his dirty face. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and bowed his head to the mound of stones he had built.  
  
“I do not even know your name,” he said. “Rest in peace, messenger of Gondor!”  
  
His thought returned to the Poet, and fresh tears came to his eyes. His horse, which had waited patiently for him to finish, started snorting again, and Anakil smiled through his tears. “I know this is not a pleasant place, old boy, and I know you do not understand why I did what I did, but that’s all right. We humans are a strange people sometimes.”  
  
The horse snickered and shook its mane. Its ears were moving frantically, back and forth, and its hooves were moving restlessly.  
  
“Give me a moment,” Anakil sighed. “I do not think a can stand up right now, not even for the short time to scramble on your back.” He settled more comfortably on his knees to catch his breath.  
  
The horse neighed.  
  
It was a terrible sound, loud and piercing and full of menace. Anakil had never heard strong but gentle Glaurung make such a sound before. For a moment, he froze in shock. “What…?” he started.  
  
The horse neighed again.  
  
Anakil covered his ears with both hands. He turned his head to look at his big companion. His surprised eyes widened in fear. The ugly brown steed came towards him through the underbrush. Its dark eyes were white rimmed. Its ears were pressed flat against its head. Its teeth were bared. Its breathing was loud and laboured. The boy dropped flat onto the earth next to the mound of stones he had erected, his arms covered his head to ward off the heavy hooves that were about to trample him. “Glaurung?!” he shouted, surprise and fear in his hoarse voice.  
  
The horse reached him. The boy closed his eyes. The terrible neigh pierced once again the quiet woods.  
  
The pain never came.  
  
Anakil opened his eyes to see trashing hooves high above his head. The heavy animal reared on his hind legs, teeth bared, neighing furiously, but it took great care not to touch its young master. Something warm and wet touched Anakil’s hand, and he quickly discovered that it was blood. Glaurung was still rearing above him, making terrible noises, and when the boy looked up, he saw the arrow protruding from a bleeding wound in the animal’s neck, and he heard an arrow pass close to his head.  
  
“Orcs!” he breathed, and he cursed himself for being such a fool. The horse had not wanted to harm him, it had protected him. “Good old boy,” he whispered.  
  
Glaurung’s heavy hooves thundered down next to him. He ignored the pain and bounced to his feet. The horse was rearing again, its eyes almost completely white in fear and anger. Anakil grabbed the horse’s mane with both hands and tried to hoist himself on the animal’s back. The steed felt its master’s weight and brought its hooves back to the ground, trembling. Anakil succeeded in scrambling on horseback. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw moving shadows in the twilight of the underbrush, and for a moment his mind wondered when Orcs had started to move about during daytime. Then he clawed all ten fingers in the horse’s wild mane and pressed his knees together. The animal did not need further encouragement. It stomped its hooves, took the makeshift bit the Rangers had created between its teeth and bolted into the underbrush.  
  
Orcs did not ride. Anakil knew they could march fast and long, but they did not tame beasts of burden to carry them. Speed was his only advantage, and the old working horse was fast in its terror and pain. Soon the brown flanks and mane were wet with sweat, but the horse raced on. Foam coated its mouth, and its eyes were still white rimmed.  
  
Anakil did not feel the pain in his feet, he felt nothing at all. He only tried to be as light a burden as possible, for his horse’s speed and endurance was the only way he would survive this encounter with the agents of the enemy. The dagger he had taken from the dead messenger was useless against archers.  
  
They reached the shore of Anduin, and Anakil succeeded in turning his racing mount northbound, in the direction of Cair Andros. The animal was tiring, its mighty jumps felt strained between the boy’s knees. Anakil risked looking back, and there was nothing but the quiet riverbank and the dark tree line of Ithilien. There was no sign of Orcs, and he doubted they would pursue him on the open riverbank. They might be willing to walk about the twilight of the thick underbrush, but there was too much light on the riverbank, even though there would be no sunshine this day.  
  
The boy released his hold on the animal’s mane and grabbed the reins. Carefully he pulled, just to get the animals attention. He remembered the warm blood on his hand, the horse was injured. “Good old boy!” he called softly. “It is over! We made it. Calm down, old boy!“ He continued talking and coaxing, until the animal slowed to a fast walk and let go of the bit. “Good old boy!” Anakil said again and patted the thick sweaty neck. “You saved us. Both of us.” He bent down and hugged the animal tightly. “Thank you, old boy!“  
  
The horse snickered, out of breath, and touched Anakil’s knee softly with its teeth. The boy reined the horse in to complete stop and dismounted. He ignored his pain and exhaustion and bent down to examine the animal’s neck. A black feathered arrow protruded from the wound, and there was a lot of blood. The boy carefully touched the area where the arrow had entered the animal’s muscles. It could not have hit a vital part, otherwise the horse would not have been able to run this far at this speed. The brown steed shuddered when the boy broke off the black feathered shaft, but it did not move away.  
  
“I am sorry, old boy,” Anakil whispered. “But this is going to hurt.” He grasped the arrow with both hands and pulled it out of the wound. The horse cried out in pain. Blood poured out of the wound, and Anakil did nothing to staunch the flow for a minute or two, hoping the blood would clear away the filth that orcish arrows sometimes carried. Then he pulled one arm off his messenger’s shirt, soaked it with the cold water of the Anduin and pressed it against the wound. The horse trembled, but it trusted it master to do the right thing, despite the pain. “Good old boy!” Anakil whispered over and over again. “Battle did not kill us, Eastern Osgiliath did not kill us, Rangers did not kill us; it would be a shame to be killed now by a patrol of stinking Orcs.”  
  
\---  
  
Seek for the sword that was broken  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsel taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur’s bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand.  
  
The dream was as vivid as the first time it had come to him, and Faramir opened his eyes out of breath, cold sweat dampening his brow. The growing thunder echoed in his ears, and he was glad that the pale light of early morning bathed his surroundings in twilight. Even though his eyes were wide open and directed at the roof of the tent he shared with his brother, there was still the image of the menacing dark eastern sky in his mind. He sat up quickly and pushed a few strands of damp hair out of his eyes.  
  
Of course he had studied the life of Isildur son of Elendil, great king of old, but Isildur’s bane was not known to him, and it was not the only mystery of the short riddle. Many swords had been broken in many battles, and doom might await them in the East, but the words did not make any sense. The only thing he knew for certain was that the dream was important, and that he had to remember it and strive to understand it, otherwise something terrible could happen to all of them. He dreamt often, and most of his dreams were about the distant past, but this dream had come to Boromir as well, and Boromir was a man of the present, and of the future. Maybe they could prevent the doom mentioned in the riddle, if they could only understand its meaning before it was too late.  
  
There was to be a great council in the city. The Lord Steward had called the Lords and Captains of his realm to his chamber. Hopefully the Lords, some of them learned in lore and history, could help him understand what the riddle wanted him to do.  
  
The council might not listen to riddles and dreams that occupied the thoughts of the Captain of Ithilien, second born son of the Steward of Gondor, but they would not overlook the concerns of the Captain General and Warden of the White Tower, and Boromir had been unsettled by the strange dream as well.  
  
He took a look at his brother. It was very early in the morning, Boromir was still fast asleep. He was lying on his stomach, his head turned to one side, one arm dangled out of the narrow cot and onto the hard floor. There was an expression of calm and peace upon his face that usually vanished almost immediately when he woke. Few people had ever seen the heir of Gondor this relaxed, and Faramir felt honored to be one of them. He reached up and pulled the blanket tightly about Boromir’s bare shoulders, for it was a rather cold morning, and his brother was injured. Boromir grunted softly, and one eye fluttered open. “Faramir?”  
  
Faramir smiled. “Go back to sleep, brother. The day is very young. I just can’t sleep any more.”  
  
Boromir mumbled something incoherent and closed his eye.  
  
Faramir had slept in his shirt and breeches and pulled on his cloak for warmth before he left the tent. Soldiers of Osgiliath had lit a fire in the small clearing before the Captains’ tent, and some of those that were not on guard duty were already up, sitting close to the fire wrapped in cloaks or blankets, sipping hot tea. They started to rise, but Faramir forestalled them with a shake of his head and a tired smile. A mug of tea was pressed into his hand, and the men shifted a little to make room for him at the fire. Faramir accepted both tea and space with words of thanks and slowly sipped his tea.  
  
The soldiers talked quietly about the new officers and about the council that was to be held later this morning, and though most of them had the look of people who had had little sleep for quite some time, they appeared relaxed and almost content. Faramir did not know one of them by name, but they accepted them in their middle without question, and he was glad for their company.  
  
Anborn came out of one tent shortly after Faramir had finished his mug of tea, took one look at the quiet company around the fire, grunted in obvious disapproval and sat down a short way away to rub his eyes and yawn. Faramir knew that Anborn and early mornings were not always on good terms.  
  
“We heard there will be a great council in Minas Tirith, Captain,” one of the soldiers said. “Will you and the Captain General attend?”  
  
Faramir nodded and held out his empty mug to receive more tea. “The Captain General and I will leave for the White City as soon as the new officers have settled into their new commands.” He did not mention that they also had to wait until Boromir was able to ride the distance.  
  
“You will tell the Lord Steward and the Lords about the battle of the bridge, won’t you? You will tell them we did all we could?”  
  
Faramir took a sip of his fresh and hot tea. “We will give a full account of the battle, and we will speak of the valor of the Osgiliath company. But rest assured, soldier, the Lord Steward already knows about it. News of great deeds travels fast these days.”  
  
“The lads and I,” the soldier gestured towards his comrades, “are kind of afraid the Lords would blame us for loosing the East, Captain.”  
  
“We did not lose the East, we won the West,” Anborn said and came over, having apparently grumbled and grunted enough to become awake and in the mood for company. “There are still Rangers east of the river, and as long as they maintain a foothold behind the lines of the enemy, the East is not lost.” Anborn nodded at Faramir. “Good morning, my Lord Captain.”  
  
“Good morning, Anborn,” Faramir said and shifted aside to make room for his Ranger at the fire. “And you are quite correct. All of us fought a great battle, and the plains of Gondor are still safe. I do not see anything worthy of blame in that.” His father the Lords Steward might be of different opinion, but those thoughts he discussed with his brother alone, never with his men.  
  
Anborn took his place at the fire and drew his cloak tightly about him for warmth.  
  
“There are Rangers east of the river, but there are no soldiers there any more,” one of the men of Osgiliath said, his eyes twinkling with amusement, for he knew a Ranger would never suffer this challenge without comment. There had always been an ongoing feud between the regular army and the Rangers.  
  
Anborn looked over the brim of his mug, and Faramir had to suppress a smile at the sudden fire in his Rangers eyes. “Be careful, soldier of Gondor!” Anborn said slowly. “Some soldiers wake up in the morning with their swords and shields gone. Sometimes they discover them days later, high up in the branches of a sturdy tree, and they never find out how their gear got there. I have heard rumours that some soldiers even need a Ranger to get it down again, for a soldier cannot climb a simply tree without injuring himself or falling down on his butt.”  
  
“If that misfortune happens to me, you will be the first to know,” the soldier answered. “And I will of course apply to your climbing skills to save any part of my gear that might have grown wings over night – and to save my butt.”  
  
The soldiers laughed. Anborn grunted, then his angry eyes gave way to a broad smile, and the two of them clinked mugs.  
  
“What is this? Soldiers of Osgiliath and Rangers of Ithilien sharing a fire?” said a new voice, and all heads turned as the Captain General, clad in nothing but his breeches and a warm blanket pulled tightly about him, came out of his tent. “There must be wizardry at work this dawn.”  
  
Faramir laughed, and the soldiers smiled and started to rise. Boromir waved his hand in dismissal and yawned. “For a place at your fire and a sip of hot tea, I will believe that this a friendly gathering of brothers in arms and not a conspiracy of Rangers and soldiers – and the Ranger Captain himself, no less – against my very person.”  
  
The soldiers made room for him at the fire, presented him with a freshly filled mug and continued talking. Faramir was relieved to see that they accepted the presence of the Captain General in their midst as readily as they had accepted his. As long as the men felt free to talk with and about their commanding officers, Gondor did not have to fear to lose their loyalty.  
  
Boromir had settled down with his right leg carefully stretched out before him. Even though his knee had not been bandaged for the night, the injury still seemed to trouble him greatly. The two Captains listened amused to the friendly banter between Ranger and soldiers, and both of them threw in a comment or two from time to time. It was early in the morning, the night watches were still on duty, and at least for this quiet time at the fire, all of them could pretend this was just another ordinary dawn in Osgiliath.  
  
\---  
  
Lying. Stealing. Deserting. Being stupid. – Being a really lucky little bastard - again. The thought came to Anakil’s mind, when suddenly the island of Cair Andros appeared before him.  
  
Next to Osgiliath and the City Guard, Cair Andros housed the third largest standing armed force in all of Gondor. From there the northern borders and plains were controlled, and the enemy whose name no one dared to speak concerned the north as well. All eyes were turned to the east those days, for they all knew that, now that Osgiliath had been tested, Cair Andros was a likely target for a second assault.  
  
The island of Cair Andros was shaped like a ship anchored in the middle of Anduin. On its both sides, the waters of the river were deeper and faster, streaming past the island foaming and gurgling, preventing hidden boats and swimmers from approaching unseen and unheard.  
  
The garrison on the island was built of heavy stones, tall and strong, and only one small gate allowed entry into the square yard inside. In recent history, the Cair Andros garrison had never been taken by an enemy, for it had its own well inside its walls, and its Captains were able to defend the gate and the high wall against ten times their own numbers. The kings of times long past had built the first garrison on the island, and on the foundations of old the present garrison had been erected, ten times stronger and higher. Green moss covered the fortified walls, and from a distance the watchtowers and walls were barely discernable from the stony island they were built upon.  
  
Two ferries were the only connection between the plains of Gondor and Ithilien now, crossing the eastern and western part of the Anduin at the island. Only experienced ferrymen were able to navigate the strong currents of those waters.  
  
One of those ferrymen stopped the young messenger, as he approached the eastern waters of Cair Andros. “Who goes there? Identify yourself!” The man was tall, his face sunburned, and his hand was at the hilt of his sword.  
  
“Anakil son of Anabar, messenger of Gondor,” Anakil said. “I am one my way from Ithilien to Osgiliath, and I need a ferry across the river and food and drink for myself and my horse.”  
  
The ferryman slowly shook his head. “I know all the messengers who ride out into Ithilien, and I know all the horses that have set foot on Cair Andros in the last month. Neither your ugly mount nor your dirty face I have ever seen before. I ask again: Identify yourself!”  
  
“Anakil son of Anabar of the Anduin, messenger of Gondor,” Anakil said again. “And you are correct, neither my horse nor myself have ever been here. We are of the Osgiliath garrison, and we found ourselves on the wrong side of the Anduin when the bridge was broken. I bear messages from Lieutenant Mablung of Ithilien, and I have tidings of one of the messengers that must have left a few days ago, for I found his body, slain by Orcs, and I buried him.”  
  
“That is ill news indeed!” the ferryman said carefully, but his hand stayed at his sword. “You sound like an honest messenger, and your shirt looks genuine enough. Dismount and show me those messages you claim to carry.”  
  
Do not hand a written message to anyone other than to the man you were told to seek out. Anakil could almost hear Beldil’s voice in his head. You cannot be sure that your friend is your friend. The boy shook his head. “I am afraid I cannot do that, soldier. Those messages are not meant for your eyes. And I do not want to dismount earlier then necessary, for my feet are badly hurt, and I fear I cannot stand without help.”  
  
The ferryman nodded slowly. “Hand me your dagger and keep your ugly beast under control. Should you try to escape or harm me, be assured, there are archers in the trees on both sides of the river, and you would not get far. I will take you to the island to meet Captain Elmir. He will decide what to make of your claim.”  
  
Anakil bowed on horseback. “Thank you, soldier.” He handed over the dagger he had found near the body of the fallen messenger.  
  
The ferryman put the weapon into his belt and raised a small horn to his lips. He blew two notes, one high and clear, one low and resounding, and this call he repeated several times. The call was echoed by another horn somewhere on the island.  
  
“The ferry will be here soon,” the soldier said. “I fear you have to dismount to board it. No one is allowed to go on board mounted. We have had a few accidents with horses in the past.”  
  
Anakil nodded. He bit his lips, closed his eyes and slowly swung down from the tall horse. When his weight rested on his feet, a strangled cry escaped him, and he sank down on his knees. The pain in his feet nearly overwhelmed his senses. He buried his face in his hands to hide the tears that threatened to escape his eyes and tried to bring his breathing under control.  
  
“What ails you, messenger?” The ferryman stepped forwards to help him, but the horse swiftly moved between the boy and the soldier, folding back its ears and baring its teeth like a dog. The ferryman stopped dead in his movement, realizing the horse would not suffer anyone to touch its master.  
  
“My feet are cut and infected inside my shoes,” Anakil groaned. He realized what the horse was doing and put a soothing hand to the broad chest. “Peace, old boy, he only wants to help.”  
  
The horse stepped back, and the ferryman cautiously stepped around the animal to the boy’s side. Seeing the badly suppressed agony on the boy’s face, he raised his horn to his lips once more and blew another note. “A healer will await you on the other side of the river,” he said. He took a long look at the boy’s face, and Anakil could see surprise in his features. “How old are you, Anakil of the Anduin?”  
  
“Old enough,” Anakil answered. “Old enough.”  
  
\---  
  
A small ferry brought the boy and his horse across the eastern Anduin onto the island. The ferryman that had stopped them on the eastern riverbank helped carry the boy aboard, but he stayed in the east and disappeared into the underbrush to continue his watch. The ferry bounced around wildly in the small rapids, and Anakil had to talk to his horse to keep it calm. The ferryman brought the small craft to the other shore with practiced ease, and he secured it at a small landing place well hidden by trees and bushes.  
  
A healer with an aide awaited them at the landing place. The aide held a small handcart. The ferryman promised to take care of the injured horse, while Anakil sat down on the handcart and was pulled over a small and hidden path along the high walls of the garrison through the small and well guarded gate into the yard.  
  
The Cair Andros garrison was surprisingly small from the inside, and it was full of life.  
  
Horses were stabled in a wooden shed near the eastern wall. There was a blacksmith’s shop with a big ambos right next to it, and the blacksmiths were busy working on weapons and horseshoes alike. Dark smoke rose from the forge into the cloudy sky.  
  
There were soldiers everywhere. There were no tents, there were enough rooms in the thick and sturdy walls to house more soldiers than Gondor could send to the garrison in those trying times, but on a cool and cloudy day like this, nobody seemed to be inside. Some were walking the ramparts, others sat around a small campfire they had built in a corner near the forge, and of course there were those on duty, manning the towers on watch.  
  
There was a small practice ground near the western wall. Men were sparring there, their naked upper bodies glistening with sweat despite the lack of sun. A small group of boys were watching the practice ground from their place at the fence, their clear voices mingling with the deeper voices of the men in the yard.  
  
It was a busy place, and the small yard appeared much livelier than the streets and ruins of Osgiliath. All men seemed to know each other and most had a small smile on their faces. There were very few officers about, and aside from jests and greetings, there was no shouting to be heard.  
  
Anakil knew that the men of Cair Andros did patrol the north but not the east, they were situated close enough to the Rangers of northern Ithilien to be spared that ugly duty, and the north was much less dangerous. Maybe they were louder and livelier because they did not have to move about under the shadow of the east every day. The only standing post the Cair Andros garrison maintained outside its fortified walls was the landing place of the ferry on the eastern shore.  
  
Anakil relished the almost happy atmosphere of the small yard. Those soldiers were different from the men of Osgiliath and Henneth Annûn, less stern and grave. They knew grief, of that the boy was sure, but they also knew days when grief was but a memory of bad times. This would change soon, of that the boy was certain, but while the healer’s aid pulled him on the cart through the yard to the quarters of the healers in the northern wall, he caught a glimpse of what it would be like to be able to take a deep breath of fresh air during a long and difficult war.  
  
The healers’ quarters were dimly lit and quite cool. There were many mattresses on the floor, and only few were occupied. The healer and his aide helped the boy move from the cart onto one of the mattresses. Than the aide took his leave, pushing the cart out of the room.  
  
The healer pulled a small knife from his belt und cut the boots the Rangers had given him away from Anakil’s feet. The bandages around both his feet were wet and bloody, and the healer shook his head while he cut them away as well. “I cannot believe Lieutenant Mablung let you do active duty, being injured like that.”  
  
“He did not have a choice,” Anakil answered, scrunching up his face in pain as the healer bathed his feet with cool water and put a strong smelling salve on the infected parts. “And I did not have to walk, I only had to ride.”  
  
“You messengers are a strange folk indeed,” the healer commented and bandaged both feet tightly. “You never cease to surprise me.”  
  
“Messengers are different,” Anakil said, and he imagined the Poet’s voice while he repeated his words, spoken in Osgiliath a lifetime ago. “Our honour lies elsewhere. Our first duty is to protect the written words that have been entrusted to our care. For us, there is no shame in hiding and running away. We cannot protect Gondor with our death, because a dead messenger equals a message that will never be delivered. Most of us are valiant fighters, either with the bow or with the sword, but people never acknowledge those skills in us as they do in warriors. Some people think us cowards because of our choice to protect and carry the written word. Those people do not understand the power and beauty of words. Messengers are just different.”  
  
The healer chuckled. “I fear it will take some time until you will be able to walk out of here and deliver messages again. I will tell Captain Elmir where he can find you, if he still wants to talk to you.” He chuckled again. “I am quite convinced you are a genuine messenger and no spy of the enemy, for you talk exactly like that old fellow over there, a messenger of the White City that came out of Ithilien just like you, unexpected, exhausted, dirty, hungry and injured.”  
  
Anakil turned his head to look at the man lying two mattresses away.  
  
The man was tall, taller than most, but his body was alarmingly thin. A worn but clean messenger’s shirt had been pulled out of crumpled breeches and hung down almost to his knees. His leather boots were old and seemingly of two different colours, but on second glance Anakil saw that it was indeed a matching pair of boots, only in different state of muddiness. His hands were tightly bandaged. Long grey hair hung wildly about the man’s head, and piercing grey eyes regarded the boy with an almost loving gaze.  
  
“Well met, my young apprentice,” the grey-haired messenger said in a deep, pleasant voice. “The eagle’s wing has fallen, the snake’s tooth has lost its poisonous sting, but the bear’s cub has braved fire and water to carry out its Lords will. Well met, indeed.”  
  
Anakil wanted to jump up, run to the mattress and envelop the man in a tight embrace, but his injured feet would not have carried him thus far.  
  
“Poet!” he whispered with tears in his eyes.


End file.
